The White Road - Lynn Flewelling [95]
"Then why would you go back?"
"So we can keep any more tayan'gils from being made."
"That's a good tale."
"I swear by Aura, it's the truth. But I am rather curious as to why you have one."
"That's no concern of yours, Aurenfaie." With that, the man and the one in the fox mask went outside, leaving Sebrahn with them, and the woman in the lynx mask to guard them. Alec caught a glimpse of other masked figures moving around outside as Sebrahn nestled in beside him and rested his head on Alec's shoulder. Their guard had grey in her hair, too.
"I'm glad you're alive!" Alec whispered to Seregil.
Seregil laughed softly. "So am I, tali."
"And Micum?"
"He's breathing."
"What happened?"
"Damned if I know," said Seregil, bracing his elbow against Micum's hip to sit up a little more. "Can't say I like the flavor of their magic."
Micum grunted and sat up. "So far I don't put much stock in Hazadrielfaie hospitality, either," he said in Skalan, glancing over at their guard. "They could do with some lessons from their southern cousins."
"So you heard?"
"About the dark witches? Yes. He must mean alchemists. And where do you suppose he got his rhekaro? Do 'faie have alchemists?"
"Not that I know of."
"Maybe that's why they want Sebrahn, if they can't make them for themselves."
"That's enough," the woman growled in that thick 'faie. "Speak in our language or don't speak at all."
They sat in silence for a while, listening to their captors moving around outside. A large fire was burning, and the smells of cooking and tea drifted in with the smoke. Someone was speaking loudly and angrily now, something about revenge.
At last the woman went out, taking the torch with her, and a much smaller man with a wild mop of curly black hair came in to stare at them. Enough light came in through the doorway to see that he wore a jacket stitched with animal teeth and held an ornate staff over one shoulder. Alec had never seen anyone like him.
Half obscured by shadows now, Seregil spoke to him in a language Alec had never heard him use before.
The 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.