White Road

man shook his head and said in passable ’faie, “I do not understand you. That is not my language.”
    “You’re not Dravnian?” Seregil sounded surprised.
    The little man hunkered down just out of arm’s reach. “I do not know ‘Dravnian.’ Who are they?”
    “They’re a people from my land who look very much like you.”
    “Do they have oo’lu?” The man held out his staff, and Alec saw that it was actually hollow.
    “No,” Seregil replied.
    The man laughed. “Then I am certainly not a Dravnian!”
    “Who are your people, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “I am Turmay, witch man of the Retha’noi of the far valley.”
    “Retha’noi? You live in the mountains?”
    “Where else would a Retha’noi live?” Turmay replied with a shrug.
    “Here in Skala, in these mountains?”
    Turmay shook his head and pointed out the door. “No, many, many days that way, to the north.” With that he turned his attention to Alec.
    Alec held his breath at the rank smell of him as the little man grasped him by the chin and turned Alec’s face this way and that, looking intently at him. He made a thoughtful noise deep in his throat, then moved away and set one end of the hollow, painted staff to his lips. Alec saw the beeswax mouthpiece and realized that it must be some sort of musical instrument even before he began to play—if you could call it that.
    The witch settled his mouth inside the wax ring, puffed out his cheeks, and proceeded to make a series of noises that were nothing like music, but exactly like what they’d heard in the pass. It throbbed and buzzed and squealed. The sound of it made Alec lightheaded, and his eyes fluttered shut. Images began to dance behind his closed lids: hanging facedown in that cage in the cellar of Yhakobin’s workshop with his blood dripping into the dirt below; Ilar’s face; the flight from the slave takers; the moment he faced down the archers who’d killed him …
    The witch abruptly stopped playing and looked at him for a long time. Finally he nodded as if satisfied about something and went outside.
    “That’s what we heard that night, up in the pass, wasn’t it?” Micum whispered in Skalan.
    “I think you’re right. How are you, Alec?” asked Seregil, looking him over with concern. Even being on the edge of this latest magic had made him a little queasy.
    “Fine.” Alec paused, blinking. “I think he read my mind, though.”
    “We’ll do well not to underestimate this witch. He’s probably the one who knocked us off our horses, and put us to sleep, too.”
    “I remember hearing a strange noise,” said Micum.
    “Yes. They must have gotten close to us, for him to do that.” Seregil gave them a wry grin. “If they weren’t probably going to try and kill us, I’d have to admire them. However …”
    He held up his right hand, showing them it was free. He’d worked it loose before the man in the wolf mask had come in, then kept it in his lap, feigning sleep. He hadn’t even had to dislocate his thumb this time, a fact he was very thankful for. He’d done it often enough over the years that the joint ached in cold weather, as it did now. Instead he’d simply folded his hand in on itself enough to work it out of the bonds.
    “Now we start playing by our rules.”
    Rieser stood by the fire with Naba, waiting patiently for Turmay as they sipped their tea. A whole pan of it sat hot by the fire, sending up a sweet aroma. They’d run out weeks ago, but their captives had several pouches of it in their packs. It was good, too, strong on the tongue. A bit of milk would have been nice, but he wasn’t complaining. One of the captives carried tobacco and a pipe, which Allia and Taegil were presently attempting to smoke. The stuff smelled vile, and they already looked a bit green.
    “Stop that!” he ordered. “It’s a filthy Tír vice. Have some tea.”
    Allia tossed the pipe away down the hill, and the pouch after it, then went to join the others, who were examining their captives’ weapons and the rest of the contents of their packs. Judging by their clothing and boots, these were men of substance, even the Tír. And the man’s sword had seenmuch use, Rieser acknowledged grudgingly. The other two swords were new, finely made by some expert smith but with little sign of use.
The Tírfaie is probably their protector
, he thought with a sneer.
    Rane was still pacing angrily, saying nothing to anyone since his outburst. He would have to wait to