White Road

“So, can you tell me exactly what you want them to look like?”
    Seregil smoothed a square of stained blotting paper out on the bed. On it were drawn two fairly detailed collars, each open on one side, with flattened ends and rivet holes, presumably where the thing would be fastened around the unfortunate slave’s neck. Seregil was a more than passable artist, and Thero could make out the simple patterns he’d decorated them with. “I didn’t know they could be so fancy.”
    “The type of collar speaks to the owner’s means and taste,” Seregil explained. “A rich man’s favorite could have a gold or silver collar, decorated quite nicely. You almost forget it’s not just jewelry.”
    Setting his mug aside, Thero picked up the poker and ran his hands over it, familiarizing himself with the metal. Ironwas less malleable than gold or silver, but not as resistant to magic as silver. He continued stroking the poker as he closed his eyes and began to visualize what he wanted. He imagined it becoming a long roll of beeswax, and felt the heat under his fingers as the iron responded, beginning to bend. He pulled back a little, not wanting to melt it. Checking the drawing again, he broke off a usable length of it and gently curved it around into an open circle.
    Seregil let out an impressed whistle. “I didn’t think it would be that easy!”
    “It’s not,” Thero muttered, concentrating to keep the metal workable. It was a small matter to pinch the ends flat and fashion a hole through them large enough for a rivet. With that done, he ran his hand over it again, smoothing the surface, and laying down a vine-like pattern as if it had been incised by some talented artist—which, as it happened, he was. Finished, he passed it to Seregil for inspection.
    “Very nice. Do you have it in you to make the other two, or do you need to rest?”
    “No, let’s proceed.” There was enough of the poker left to make a little collar for Sebrahn, but he had to work with the crowbar to make the third. This iron had been more crudely refined and took more concentration, but the others were quietly cheering him on and it was surprising how much that helped. Even Sebrahn seemed mildly interested.
    The third collar was heavier than the others, with a double line of arrowhead designs. When he was done, Seregil took it and weighed it against the first. “It’s not as fine.”
    “It’s the best I can do with the quality of that metal,” Thero told him, at the end of his strength for the moment.
    “I’ll wear it,” Alec offered. “After all, I’m a little bigger than you are, Seregil.”
    “Stop bragging,” said Seregil, with what might have been a hint of pique. “It’s only an inch of height, and you still have that baby’s face of yours.”
    Alec smoothed two fingers over the barely discernible fuzz on his upper lip. “You won’t say that when I’m shaving.”
    “I hate to disappoint you, talí, but you’re no more likely to sprout a beard than I am.”
    “Are we leaving, or are you two going to stand around preening yourselves all morning?” asked Micum, who was sporting a respectable scruff on his chin and cheeks this morning, in addition to his bushy moustache. Seregil made a rude gesture in his friend’s direction.
    Thero watched with amusement and, if he was honest with himself, a bit of affection, as well.
    Micum stowed the collars away in a pack while Seregil and Alec dressed in clothing Thero brought from the Wheel Street house. The surcoats they chose were plain but stylishly cut, and the breeches of soft doeskin were just loose enough to ride in. He’d forgotten about boots, which would have been unwieldy to conceal, but those they’d worn from Aurënen were close enough in cut not to be remarked on, especially since the men who wore them were unmistakably Aurënfaie themselves. Thero studied Alec’s face in the morning light; his dark blue eyes gave away his mixed blood, but he still retained the heightened features that had resulted from whatever strange magic the alchemist had put Alec through to purify the strain of Hâzadriëlfaie blood in his veins. At this point Thero was quite sure the change was permanent. He hoped the people who knew him as Lord Alec in Rhíminee would put the change down simply to him growing toward manhood.
    “Come on then!” Seregil said, slinging a pack over his shoulder. He’d buckled on his sword, and Thero could see the slight bulge on the outside of