“Yes, I know, but how was the rhekaro made?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I only assisted him when required, but he used Alec’s flesh, blood, spit, tears … Ilban combined it with other things he called ‘elements.’ Still, it wasn’t enough. He had more hope for the second one, and seemed pleased with it, even though it didn’t have wings. He hadn’t yet found how to unlock the secrets of its blood, either. But it could do little tasks around the workshop. I think he meant to keep it as a pet.”
“And Alec—” Another cough tore at his chest and Ulan tasted blood. Ilar patted him awkwardly on the back until the fit was over. Ulan fell back in his chair, wiping his lips. “He kept Alec to make more rhekaros. What of Seregil?”
“He was given to me. If only—” Ilar broke off and would say no more. He looked thoroughly miserable.
“I see. Well, perhaps you will see him, in time.”
Ilar’s eyes widened. “But how?”
“Time will tell. In the meantime, would you like to live here permanently, under my protection?”
“Yes, Khirnari.” Ilar sank to his knees before Ulan and kissed his hand.
“Now, now, dear boy. No need for such dramatics. We’ll bide our time, and my spies will keep an eye on things. I doubt Seregil and Alec will go anywhere before spring, if they move at all.”
“Spring?” Ilar said, disappointed. “Will I see him then?”
“Perhaps, and you’ll be that much stronger by then. Now, I would like to hear more about the rhekaros and how they are made. Where did your Ilban’s knowledge come from?”
Ilar actually looked around, as if he was still afraid of being overheard. “Books,” he whispered. “He has three great thick books that he keeps in the little tent. He pored over them for years before Alec came. You told me about the boy—the Hâzadriëlfaie boy—and I told Ilban. I’ve never seen him so excited! That’s when he promised Seregil to me.”
“Ah, I see. But the books?”
Ilar subsided and the light went from his eyes. “In the little tent.”
“And where is this little tent?”
“It’s at the far end of the workroom, opposite the forge. I wasn’t allowed to look in there, but I often saw him take out the books.”
“And did you see what was in them?”
Ilar shifted uneasily, looking guilty now. “Sometimes I looked, when Ilban went back to the house for something. I couldn’t read the writing. Most of his books are like that. Ilban says that alchemists keep their secrets by writing in code.”
“In code? The book he showed me was not.”
“Then perhaps he didn’t show you the real ones. In the one I looked at, the words made no sense, but I saw a fine engraving of winged beings. Ilban was disappointed that neither of the ones he made had wings. They were larger in the drawings, too: the size of a man, at least in the pictures I saw.”
Ulan knew that much already. He’d corresponded regularly with Charis Yhakobin, anxious for news of success that never came. No, what caught his interest and made his pulse quicken was this talk of books. Codes could be broken. And then?
And then I could unlock the secrets of the use of a rhekaro, perhaps even make one for myself! Of course that would mean possessing young Alec, as well.
“Do you think the books are still there?”
“Ilban never allows anyone to touch them. I think his servant Ahmol and I are the only ones who know about them.”
Ulan sat there for some time after Ilar went back to his room, pondering deeply. Ilar was the only one who knew what the books looked like. If they had been moved, only he could identify them. It seemed Ilar might be of use after all.
He’d had no word from Elisir in weeks and had to assume that Seregil and Alec, and therefore the rhekaro, were still safely in Bôkthersa.
“Patience,” he whispered as he gazed out over his beloved city and the harbor below. No, he was not ready to give up all this.
But patience had its limits.
Returning to his library, he settled at the desk there and began a letter to his nephew. Alchemists were not the only ones to use code.
CHAPTER 14
Moonlight and Snow
IN SKALA, the last night of Cinrin—the longest in the calendar—was celebrated with Mourning Night, when the Immortal, Sakor, died, to be reborn the next day. Here in Aurënen, it was a celebration of the first moonrise of the new year. Bôkthersa everyone gathered in rooftop colos to watch the full moon come up over the mountains.
Bonfires were lit a few hours before sunset and people gathered around them to drink cold tea and a special sweet soup, served by the older children. Adzriel gave everyone gifts of jewelry made out of silver, many of which had been fashioned by Akaien. In addition to two torques set with polished garnets, Adzriel presented Alec with a fine cloak pin and Seregil with a small traveler’s harp inlaid with shell pearl.
“Think of your people whenever you play it, Haba,” she told him. “And I’ll expect you to play at the dance tonight.”
Later, Alec and Micum stood in silence with Seregil and his family in the central colos of the clan house and watched the first pale glimmer of moon glow appear over the eastern peaks. He truly felt like he belonged here now; that he was really part of this clan, this family, even though they were leaving soon. Sebrahn stood between him and Seregil, holding their mittened hands and looking up at the night sky. Alec had explained the event to him, hoping he’d understand at least some of it.
The glow over the mountains slowly brightened expanding into a gauzy nimbus so bright Alec could even make out the trees on the peaks.
As the edge of the moon appeared over the mountain, everyone began to sing.
Blessings of Aura descend in the moon’s glow.
People of Aura, bathe in the light.
Blood of the Dragon runs in our veins,
Shed on our land in the long-ago night.
Blessings of Aura, reborn in our sight
Blessings of Aura, the Lightbearer’s gift.
The verse was repeated over and over, and echoed among the peaks, doubling and trebling, almost harmonizing with the voices.
Blood of the Dragon runs in our veins—A chill ran up Alec’s spine. He was not a dragon! The dragon had said so.
“Alec, look,” Seregil whispered, jarring him out of his dark thoughts.
Something dark moving against the stars.
“Drak-kon,” said Sebrahn, his eyes like silver coins in the moonlight. Raising his arms, he sang a single clear note, the same one he’d sung to Tyrus’s great dragon. Startled looks came their way, and Alec wondered uneasily if Sebrahn was calling the dragons down from the sky.
Little dragonlings fluttered into the colos to light on Sebrahn’s shoulders, and Alec’s, but the ones overhead remained in the sky, a huge one surrounded by countless others of all sizes.
“Is that Tyrus’s dragon?” Alec asked, amazed and delighted. This must be the surprise Seregil had spoken of.
“It is,” Seregil replied, smiling. “I wanted to watch this with you. And you, too, of course, Micum.”
Micum just laughed.
The dragons swooped and dove against the night sky, like fish playing in a stream, and the great dragon sang back to Sebrahn, his roar softened by the distance.
Watching them, Alec’s heart swelled a little. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, sharing a connection with something so wondrous.
This went on until the moon was high above the peaks. Then the great beasts disappeared as quickly as they’d come.
Adzriel turned and kissed him. “Come now, my brothers, it’s time for the dancing!”
Everyone went home to dress for the dances and parties that followed. As Alec descended the stairs from the roof with Sebrahn in his arms, he could hear the musicians tuning up in the great hall. The sound always stirred his blood, ever since Micum’s daughters had taught him how to dance, but the feeling was mingled with sudden misgivings.