White Road

what Sebrahn was excited about and waved them off.
    A large white owl sat blinking down at them from a bough.
    Sebrahn held his arms up to it and rasped out, “Drak-kon!”
    “Now, why would he think that?” said Micum.
    “Owls are as much Aura’s creatures as dragons are,” Seregil explained. “And since there aren’t any dragons around here, maybe he’s making do with what he has.”
    “You’re not suggesting that owls are really dragons, too, are you?” Micum asked, skeptical.
    “No, just that they both belong to Aura.”
    Suddenly Sebrahn began to sing, as he had with the great dragon, but this song was softer. The bird swiveled its round head to look down at the rhekaro, then shook its wings, sending a few tufts of fluff drifting down onto Sebrahn’s upturned face. When Sebrahn kept singing, it gave a loud hoot and fluttered down to perch on his shoulder. The bird was too big and ended up clinging to his arm, digging its talons in hard enough to draw white blood. Tiny dark blue flowers formed where drops fell like jewels against the snow.
    Sebrahn stroked its snow-white breast. The owl hooted again, and a third time before taking wing into the darkness.
    “Drak-kon!” Sebrahn called after it.
    “Look, Alec,” Seregil said quietly, pointing up at the trees. Four other white owls perched there, their gold coin eyes fixed on Sebrahn.
    “They’re solitary hunters,” Micum murmured. “Did he call them here?”
    “Maybe,” said Seregil. “I didn’t notice them before.”
    Alec knelt by Sebrahn and pointed up at the birds. “Owls. Not dragons. Owls.”
    “Drak-kon.”
    “No. Owls.”
    Sebrahn looked confused. “Aaaaals?”
    “Yes. Ow-els.”
    “Aaaaaals.”
    Seregil chuckled. “Close enough.”
    “Drak-kon!” Sebrahn pointed up to the birds again.
    “It’s not a dragon. It’s an owl,” Alec explained again.
    Sebrahn sounded almost sulky as he whispered, “Aaaaaal.”
    They traveled like that for the next two days through stony divides, winding stretches of open, ice-slick rock, and small valleys where herds of elk wintered. Eagles and sharp-winged hawks soared against the clear blue sky and dazzling peaks by day; at night owls hooted as they hunted on the night air and came to visit Sebrahn in answer to his song.
    Alec was carefully turning a spitted rabbit over the fire that night when he heard a high-pitched, familiar call. A tiny saw-whet owl sat on a branch almost over his head. It was a lucky sign; of all their kind, these little buff-and-white birds, no longer than his hand, were considered the Lightbearer’s most sacred emissary, and seeing one always brought good luck.
    Sebrahn held up his hand. Even without a song to draw it down, the bird fluttered down to perch on his hand, preening. “Drak-kon aaaaaaaal.”
    Seregil put down the armload of firewood he’d gathered and gave the bird a respectful nod. “Whatever he wants to call it, we’ll need all the luck we can get before we come back this way.”
    “You think we’re being followed again?” asked Micum, looking up from the rabbit he was gutting.
    “I just have a—”
    “Wait.” Alec’s hand stilled on the spit as he caught sight of movement from the corner of his eye. Something or someone was there between the trees, just beyond the reach of the firelight. “To the left,” he whispered.
    “And behind you,” Micum whispered back, reaching for his sword. Seregil tossed Alec his bow and quiver and pulled Sebrahn to his feet. Together, they all backed slowly out of the circle of light that made them an easy target. Keeping the rhekaro shielded among them, they waited.
    As Alec’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw more movement. Whatever it was, it didn’t make any noise. It felt like a hundred eyes were staring at him from all directions.
    “What do you think?” Micum murmured.
    “They could have surprised us if they’d wanted to attack,” Seregil pointed out.
    “Maybe,” said Micum. “I don’t see anything now. You, Alec?”
    “No.”
    They stood like that for some time, but nothing happened.
    “I think they’re gone,” Micum said at last.
    With Seregil in the lead and Alec holding Sebrahn by one hand and his bow in the other, they made a circuit of the copse and beyond, finding half a dozen odd trails in the snow.
    “Looks like they used a brush tail,” Micum said, inspecting one of the marks. Their visitors had brought boughs with them, dragging them behind themselves to cover