When they stopped in a dry gully, just before dawn, Seregil’s thoughts had turned to other things.
They settled as comfortably as they could, sheltered by a few wind-twisted cedars that overhung the bank. Seregil sat down beside Sebrahn and stroked the rhekaro’s hair. “You’re a fine healer, little one, with those flowers of yours.”
That got a wan smile from Alec. “He is, isn’t he? Maybe if Yhakobin had figured that out, he wouldn’t have hurt them so much.”
“The fact that he didn’t know makes me wonder what he was after.” Seregil paused, working up the nerve to broach the idea that had come to him during the night’s march. “Alec, I’m going to need your help with something. Is your knife still good and sharp?”
“Yes. Why?”
Seregil pushed back his right sleeve and ran a thumb over the slave mark.
“Oh, no! Are you insane?”
Seregil grinned. “Probably, but that’s beside the point at the moment. I’m going to need your help.”
“What are you talking about?” Ilar demanded.
“You said it yourself,” Seregil replied. “These marks are nothing I want to wear for the rest of my life. And if we’re caught with them here, then there’s no talking our way out of anything.”
“And I told you that the first thing the slave takers look for is a new wound where the brand should be.”
Seregil nodded at Sebrahn. “But what if there isn’t one to find?”
He unbuckled his belt and folded the end over, then clenched it between his front teeth. “That should do. Let’s do the leg brand first, Alec. That’s less likely to be noticed in passing, if this doesn’t work.”
“Why not try it on Ilar first?” asked Alec.
Ilar was halfway to his feet already, and looked ready to bolt.
“That’s why,” said Seregil. “He’ll fight and scream and we could end up hamstringing him. And it can’t be you, either. You’re the only one Sebrahn listens to, and if he sees me come at you with a knife, he might not be very cooperative.” He grinned and ruffled Alec’s hair. “Don’t worry, talí. I’ve been through worse.”
True. But not for a long time.
It took a little more convincing, but finally he talked them both into it. Ilar stood with Sebrahn, holding the cup of water. Seregil stretched out in the dirt on his belly, clutching the folded belt. Alec knelt over him with the knife and pulled up his trouser leg to expose the brand.
He gripped Seregil’s leg, and Seregil was glad that hand was steady. “Be quick, Alec, and try not to cut too deep. Just the skin.”
“I know.”
Seregil put the folded leather between his teeth and bit down. He felt Alec pinch up the skin on the back of his calf, then bit down hard on the belt as Alec started cutting.
Seregil probably had been through worse, and Alec probably was working as quickly as he could, but it certainly didn’t seem like it as white-hot pain shot up Seregil’s leg. Having the brand flayed off hurt worse than having it burned on. Panting around the folded belt, he was only dimly aware when Alec stopped and said something to the others.
An agonizing moment later, hands gripped his calf and he snarled and jerked in their grip as something cold and wet touched his raw flesh.
“Lie still!” Alec ordered.
The cold sensation came back, but this time the pain subsided considerably. He tried to look over his shoulder, but Alec pushed him down again. “Stay still, please. It’s going to take a few more.”
After the second flower the pain was bearable. After the third he spit out the belt and buried his head in his folded arms, covered in cold sweat and overwhelmed by the heavy perfume of the healing flowers.
Alec used one more, and the last of the pain was gone. “It worked!”
Seregil rolled over and stuck out his arm. “Do the other.”
“Maybe we should wait.”
Seregil let out a shaky laugh. “If we do that, you’ll have to run me down and catch me. Just do it!” He jammed the belt back in his mouth and locked his left arm across his eyes.
Either he had more feeling in the underside of his arm or Alec had to cut deeper. Seregil was fighting back wheezing little screams before Alec stopped and applied the flowers.
When it was over he let his left arm fall and lay staring up at the dawn sky, willing himself not to throw up.
Alec bent over him, concerned. “Does it still hurt?”
“No,” Seregil gasped, “but that was less fun than I thought it would be.”
Vomiting less imminent now, he sat up and examined his forearm. The brand was gone. The skin where it had been was smooth and thin, but whole. There was some lingering pain, actually, but nothing he couldn’t stand. He looked up at the others. Alec was pale, and the fingers holding the knife were bloody but still steady. Ilar looked sick as he knelt beside Sebrahn with the cup. “Thank you. Everyone.” He reached over and gave the rhekaro a shaky pat on the head. “Especially you!”
The rhekaro held out its right forefinger; a drop of his white blood had welled out from the little cut there.
Seregil smiled. “Yes. You made my pain go away. Thank you.”
Alec managed a grin when he handed the bloody knife to Seregil. “My turn, if you’re up to it. Pinch up the skin and cut under it. You’re less likely to cut into the meat that way.”
Seregil shuddered as he handed Alec the belt. “I’m really glad you didn’t say that while you were still cutting.”
Alec shrugged, then put his hands on Sebrahn’s shoulders. “Seregil is going to cut me now. That’s all right. I’m letting him, and you’ll make those flowers for me, too, won’t you?”
The rhekaro gazed up at him, silent and emotionless as ever.
“All right.” Alec stretched out on the ground between them and buried his face in his arms. His voice was muffled as he added, “I just hope you’re as good as I am at skinning things.”
Seregil’s hand tightened around the black hilt. “Bite on the leather. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Ilar gripped Alec’s calf at the ankle and just below the knee, his face inches from Seregil’s. Their eyes met, and Seregil was surprised at the encouragement he saw there as Ilar murmured, “Don’t make him wait.”
Seregil pinched up the smooth golden skin around Alec’s brand. The hard muscle underneath was lean and corded. Seregil took a deep breath, then sliced away the brand in one go, leaving a raw oval of exposed flesh. He sat back on his heels and watched as Sebrahn placed a large dark flower on the bleeding wound. It disappeared, just as he’d seen at the goatherd’s cottage. The rhekaro made three more, and when the last had done its work and the wound was closed, Alec let out a choked moan and rolled over, still clutching the belt between his teeth. Tears of pain welled in his eyes as he stuck out his arm and gave Seregil an imploring look that said hurry.
Seregil quickly sliced out the second brand and helped Sebrahn place the flowers. When that wound was healed he grabbed Alec’s hand in both of his, heedless of the blood. “Better?”
Alec spit out the gnawed belt and closed his eyes. “You’re right,” he whispered. “That wasn’t much fun.”
Sebrahn curled up next to him with his head on Alec’s chest. Alec stroked his hair. “You did a good job.”
Seregil looked over at Ilar, and saw him swallow hard. He was terrified. “I could hide if the slave takers come.”
“We can’t risk that. If we’re caught with a marked slave, Alec and I are just as dead as if we’d stayed branded. It doesn’t take long, and the flowers take away the pain very quickly.”
Ilar nodded slowly, though he was trembling badly. “I’m not as brave as you two. You’d better hold me down. Seregil, will you do the cutting?”
“All right. Lie down.”
Ilar was already whimpering as Alec lay down across him, pinning Ilar’s leg with both hands. Seregil braced one knee on the back of Ilar’s calf and went to work.
Ilar screamed around the belt bu
t didn’t struggle very much as Seregil sliced off the branded skin. Sebrahn placed the flowers as before, but Seregil noticed that they were smaller now, and it took more of them to heal the wound.
When that was over, Alec got off Ilar. “Turn over.”
“I can’t! No more!” Ilar whimpered.
“Yes, you can.” Alec roughly flipped Ilar over and flattened himself across the sobbing man to grip his arm.
Ilar did struggle this time, making it harder for Seregil to make a single clean cut. His fingers were slippery with blood and he got only half the brand, and managed to slice his own thumb, too.
“Stop moving, damn it! You’re only making it worse.”
Ilar froze, trying to choke back his sobs.
“Cover his eyes, Alec.” Seregil got the rest of the brand off and sat back to let Sebrahn do his healing work.
Despite the healing, Ilar was a sobbing wreck. Seregil patted his shoulder awkwardly. “That’s enough, now. Come on. Get up.”
Seregil tried to pull him up, but Ilar’s legs wouldn’t hold him and Seregil ended up on the ground again with Ilar halfway in his lap, clutching Seregil’s coat in both hands. Seregil had little choice but to hold him until he calmed down. He could feel the raised ridges of old scars under his hands, through the back of Ilar’s thin robe. Past suffering had made Seregil stronger, and Alec, too. It had broken Ilar.
“You’re getting blood all over him.”
Seregil looked up to find Alec cradling Sebrahn in his arms. He was watching Ilar with a mix of pity and disgust. But when he looked up at Seregil, he caught a flash of resentment there, too.
They sat like that for a long time as the sun came up, each of them holding another in their arms.
CHAPTER 43 Divisions
ALEC HAD NO idea what the date was, but the wind grew sharper every day and smelled of winter. At night the ground under their feet sparkled with frost.
With careful rationing, and a bit of luck he had hunting, they managed to make Tiel’s food last two nights, but the cold was rapidly becoming more of a danger. When they had to rest there was nothing to do but huddle even closer together than before, trying to keep the heat in each other’s bodies.
Three days out from the goatherd’s cottage not only were they still not in sight of the ocean, but it began to rain. By dawn it was coming down so hard that he and Seregil gave up on keeping watch and joined Ilar in the scant shelter of a ruined cottage they’d come across.
“At least water won’t be a problem today,” Seregil joked through chattering teeth.
When they moved on that night, they were still hungry and filthy, but little rills flowed in the formerly dry gullies, enough to keep the water skin filled.
Since healing the girl, Sebrahn had returned to his usual silent, passive state, showing no interest in diverging from each night’s chosen march. Hungry most of the time himself, Alec fed him several times a day, and the rhekaro seemed content with the extra feedings. He nestled close to Alec when he slept, but he always did that, anyway.
Looking into those pale eyes as he washed Sebrahn’s face or cut his hair, however, Alec was convinced that he saw more intelligence there each day. The way the rhekaro sensed the sick girl and insisted on finding her was proof enough of that. And Seregil had begun to soften towards him, too, much to Alec’s relief.
The only signs of habitation they saw over the next two nights were a few herders’ huts. They stopped just long enough to take what little food they could steal, careful not to show themselves to the householders.
The subject of getting rid of either Ilar or Sebrahn had died somewhere along the road. Seregil had to admit that he’d had the easier choice. At first he’d made an effort to refer to the rhekaro as “him” and “Sebrahn” for Alec’s sake. Since that night at the goatherd’s cottage, he couldn’t help but begin to think of him as a real being. Silent and strange as he was, Sebrahn had somehow known of the girl’s distress and acted to help her. The sight of him drinking Alec’s blood, and the touch of his cold little fingers were still a little unnerving, though.
Alec and Ilar also seemed to have established a truce of sorts, enough at least they could sleep next to each other without a fight, but that was about as far as it went. Seregil had never seen Alec hold a grudge like this; he’d always been the more forgiving one, and it made Seregil wonder if there was something Alec hadn’t told him about his time with Ilar in the alchemist’s house.
Less clear were Seregil’s feelings toward Ilar. He still had every reason to hate the man, and years of a bitterly nursed grudge on top of that, yet whenever he looked at Ilar, all he could see were the scars and the beaten look in his eyes. This wasn’t the man he remembered.
Days ago, when they’d first had to huddle together while Alec was on watch, Ilar had been quiet and nervous. But as the days went on, he began to talk of Aurënen and the past, like he had when Seregil had been playing the dutiful slave. Now he asked for news of people he remembered, and recalled friends they’d shared. Grudgingly at first, Seregil found himself having real conversations with Ilar. If it had been anyone but Ilar, it would have been rather pleasant. The fact that Alec had nothing good to say to the man during their marches, but could sleep next to him in the daylight, made Seregil wonder if he was softening toward Ilar, too. When he tried to broach the subject in a rare moment of privacy, however, Alec just stared at him.
“I use him for warmth, like a campfire. Nothing else.” He gave Seregil an oddly appraising look. “What about you?”
“The same,” Seregil replied, but in the back of his mind, a little doubt niggled. Alec saw through him in an instant. “I can’t explain it, talí. I don’t want him. I don’t like him! I just can’t seem to hate him anymore. As soon as we get away from Plenimar we’ll send him on his way, I promise.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
Alec let it drop, but only after giving Seregil a skeptical look that cut him to the heart.
By the time the first hint of dawn showed that morning, Alec could tell by the scent on the breeze that they were finally nearing the ocean. He waited until the sky brightened along the horizon, then pointed off to the southwest. “There it is. The Strait!”
Between the still-dark land and the golden lip of the horizon, a dark strip of ocean curved into the hazy distance. Beyond that, out of sight, lay Aurënen, and safety.
“I don’t believe it!” whispered Ilar. “We might actually make it.”
Seregil gave him a crooked grin. “Two nights. Three at most. I hope you have a good stomach for sailing, my friend.”
Friend? Alec’s own grin died-not for all the days Ilar had slept beside Seregil, or for his betrayal of Alec in Yhakobin’s house. No, it was the way Seregil had called Ilar “friend.” It sounded almost like he meant it.
“Come on!” Seregil urged, not noticing.
They came across a rutted dirt track leading south and gave it a wide berth. They skirted a small hamlet, too, and finally took refuge in a lonely copse of trees next to a stream. It was less than ideal, but the sun was up and they couldn’t risk being caught out in the open.
There was plenty of dry wood lying around, and after some consultation, he and Seregil decided to risk a small fire. The three of them breakfasted on boiled water and a few slices of raw turnip. It wasn’t very filling but the heat felt good in their bellies. They kept the rest of their scant provisions-a few more turnips, two wizened apples, and some cooked meat from the skinny coney Alec had killed two days earlier-in the rag sack, hoping to eke them out one more day.
He and Seregil took turns on watch through the day. It was a sheltered spot and the sun had come out at last, so Ilar was left to sleep by himself again.
Seregil was on watch late that afternoon, burning wood ticks from his arms and legs with the hot tip of a stick, when Ilar woke and scratched glumly at his own dirty clothing and hair. Moving carefully past Alec, who was still asleep with Sebrahn, he wa
lked over to Seregil and whispered, “You’ll have to show me how to do that. I itch all over. I have to piss, too. May I have some privacy?”
Ilar always went off by himself, and in the dark, too, to attend to bodily functions. Seregil was about to object, then thought of the gelding scars Ilar had shown him. “Go on, but stay inside the trees.”
Ilar stepped behind a large trunk and a moment later Seregil caught sight of a bare, bent knee sticking out from behind it.
Of course, he has to squat. He looked away, more affected by the sight than he thought possible. He remembered that body the way it had been, strong and whole and pressed close to his…
Seregil threw his stick into the fire and went to make a circuit of their little hiding place, looking for any signs of life and trying not to think about the man.
Ilar, however, followed him. “I’m hungry.”
“We’ll eat when Alec wakes up. Have all the water you want. The stream is good.”
Ilar drank deeply and capped the skin. Then he turned and looked back to where Alec lay asleep on the ground. “So that’s what you can love, eh? Can’t say I blame you. He has a kind heart.”
“Not for those who betray him,” Seregil retorted softly.
“I’m sorry about that. What choice do you think I had? Ilban ordered it and I had to obey.”
“Stop calling him that! You’re free now. Aurënfaie don’t have masters.”
Ilar’s soft laugh was bitter. “Can either of us call himself that anymore?”
“That’s the blood that runs in our veins, no matter what anyone says, or does to us.”
“I see. Well, I’ll try to take your advice, until someone sees me naked. I’ll be quite the darling of the baths, won’t I?”
“Self- pity is not a very productive emotion, you know. Or an attractive one.”
“Forgive me, Ilban,” Ilar returned with heavy sarcasm.
Seregil bit back a snide remark, not wanting to wake Alec. Even asleep, the younger man had dark rings of exhaustion under his eyes. He lay curled on his side with his head on the bundle, with Sebrahn nestled against his chest as always.
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