White Road

faith,” said Seregil.
    “Do you?” The grim-faced bastard sounded amused.
    “We want our weapons and gear back.”
    “And our own horses,” added Micum.
    “Gear and horses for now. We’ll see about the weapons later.”
    “And Sebrahn rides with me,” said Alec.
    “No.”
    “We’re supposed to trust you, but you don’t trust us?” Alec shouted. “Sebrahn rides with me, or you can all go to the crows!”
    “You can carry him, and walk,” Rieser countered.
    “Fine!”
    “I’ll take turns with you, and so will Seregil,” said Micum.
    “Then it’s settled.” Seregil extended a hand to Rieser. The man clasped it grudgingly, and the deal was struck.
    So it was that Alec and the others came to be sitting around a morning campfire with Rieser, the two rhekaros, the witch Turmay, and half a dozen Ebrados, sharing a tense, silent breakfast while Naba and the rest were at work on the trail below, dragging the fallen trees aside. Alec’s dried venison and bread were like leather and ashes in his mouth as he thought of leaving Sebrahn with strangers, even if the rhekaro didn’t care. That hurt a bit, too. More than a bit.
    It took considerable effort to turn his initial anger at Seregil onto Rieser instead, though Alec knew in his heart that Seregil had done the best he could. As he grew calmer, he regretted that he hadn’t answered Seregil’s plea for trust as they’d walked back to surrender. The look in Seregil’s eyes then had made Alec’s heart turn over in his chest, but there was nothing he could do about that right now except to keep his guard up and his eyes open.
    From where he sat, it was a short sprint to where his bow and sword were, strapped to the back of a white packhorse. Windrunner and Cynril were tethered nearby; Patch, Star, and Micum’s horses were gone, put to work hauling trees.
    “So how did you get ahead of us on the trail?” Seregil asked Rieser, seemingly at ease now and playing as if he didn’t already know that answer.
    Rieser spared him a brief glance, then turned back to minding the fire.
    “My oo’lu has a long voice,” the witch told him, grinning.
    “You signaled someone?” asked Seregil, showing the witch more respect than he did his master. “Who?”
    “I have—”
    “That’s enough,” growled Rieser.
    “As you like, friend. As you like,” the little man chuckled, but Alec was almost certain he saw a flash of something less friendly in the witch’s black eyes. Small and dirty as he was, Alec could feel a power in him, and felt a gut level mix ofrespect and dread when he saw the way the dark tracery on the witch’s face and hands seemed to move on its own with his moods. Micum was watching him closely, too, and gave Alec the slightest hint of a nod as their eyes met.
    Seregil was not oblivious, he knew, but was playing his own game—one he was very good at.
    Pointing over at Sebrahn, who was still with Hâzadriën, Alec asked, “So, why are they drawn to each other like that?”
    Rieser looked annoyed. “It’s the blood.”
    “You mentioned others last night. Do they all look like yours?”
    “More than yours does.”
    “Do they all favor the one they are made from?” asked Seregil. “Sebrahn certainly looks like Alec, and nothing at all like Hâzadriën.”
    “They do,” a young man replied. He had the same dark hair and long face as Rieser, but appeared to be half his age and twice as friendly. “Or at least that’s what I’ve been told. Except for the coloring, they all are a little different in the face.”
    “Is that why this one has a woman’s face but a man’s name?”
    “They have no sex,” Rieser snapped. “Shut up and eat. We ride as soon as the way is clear.” He turned to one of the older men. “Sorengil, you’re in charge. If any of the captives give you trouble, bind and gag them. Turmay, come with me.” Tossing his last crust into the fire, Rieser stalked away down the hill to oversee the work.
    With weapons, Alec and the others probably could have taken the half dozen men and the woman left, but Alec had no idea what the witch would do and Seregil seemed content to play the toss as thrown for now.
    Sorengil looked to be the same age and temperament as Rieser, while the one who’d answered Seregil appeared to be friendlier.
    “What’s your name?” Alec asked him, sensing a weak point on the enemy’s side.
    “Kalien í Rothis. And you?”
    “Alec í—”
    “Bastards don’t name their fathers,”