The strange sounds continued, rising and falling on the breeze coming up from the pass.
“It doesn’t sound like it’s moving,” said Alec.
“That’s probably a good thing, if the sound of it carries this far,” said Micum. “You two get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.”
“Thanks.” Seregil unbuckled his sword, but kept it close to hand and his boots on as he curled up under the damp woolen blankets. A little warmer now, he stared up at the sky. Or would have had it been visible. There was nothing to see but more mist and the faint blur of the moon.
And the moon-white streaks in Sebrahn’s dark hair.
Turmay lowered his oo’lu for a moment. He and Naba had exchanged the knowing song and formed an alliance that did not include the Hâzadriëlfaie. Naba was concerned to find him in the company of the tayan’gil. Turmay had needed to play an entire telling song to put the images of the good the tayan’gil could do in the other man’s mind; the Mother tolerated this sort. If she had not, the Retha’noi and Hâzad could not have coexisted this long. The small tayan’gil, though? That was another matter, and Naba already understood that.
He played on, weaving a prayer into the song. Thank you, Great Mother, for showing me the way so far, and bringing me to these distant Retha’noi. I think I see your design now. Let me play out the next threads to your will.
The first sounds of a new and powerful song were already taking form in his mind, a song the Mother meant for him to share.
CHAPTER 22
Turnabout
SEREGIL woke cold and confused. He’d been dreaming of snow, and wasn’t sure if he was really awake or not; he could still feel snowflakes melting on his face. He sat up and shook the snow from his hair and the blankets. He was most certainly awake and it most certainly was snowing. Alec sat beside him, wrapped in a blanket with Sebrahn. Micum sat on a stone just beyond.
Micum looked at him, bemused. “Looks like winter isn’t done with us just yet.” He had his hood up; it was capped with white. “You kept muttering in your sleep. Bad night?”
Seregil just shrugged. He didn’t remember any details.
It was a windless day and the snow was falling silent and heavy, making it hard to see for more than a few dozen yards in any direction. The solid cover of big-bellied clouds promised a long day of it.
They broke their fast with cold rabbit and water, then set off again, beginning the long descent.
It was midafternoon when Sebrahn suddenly grew restless in Alec’s arms.
“What is it? Another owl?” Seregil wondered, looking around.
“Or someone who needs healing. There could be a village on this side, or a traveler,” said Micum, almost lost from sight in the dull glare of the snow. “Bilairy’s Balls, I wish I could see farther than I can piss!”
Suddenly they were startled by a strange, distant thrumming sound that made the hair on the back of Seregil’s neck stand up.
“It’s the same as last night!” Alec exclaimed, reining in. “And a lot closer.”
Half snow blind and distracted by the sound, Seregil didn’t hear Micum fall and nearly rode him down as his friend struggled to get to his feet. Cynril, who was usually a steady, reasonable beast, bucked wildly, throwing him off, and galloped away, pulling Star away on the lead rein.
Alec was close behind, and reined in so sharply that Patch reared and Windrunner whinnied in alarm. Hampered by Sebrahn, he couldn’t keep purchase on the saddle and they both tumbled off, Alec somehow managing to land on his back with Sebrahn still clutched to his chest. Micum was already on his feet, but Seregil could tell he was favoring his bad leg. In spite of Sebrahn’s healing, he still needed his stick now and then, and carried it tied behind his saddle. He had his sword, though, and he drew it, casting around for a glimpse of the enemy.
Alec already had his bow in hand. He held it low, left hand tight around the leather grip, right hand holding an arrow to the string. Seregil knew how quickly he could raise and shoot.
“Are you all right?” Seregil asked.
“Did you see them?” Micum growled, staring around at the falling snow.
“See who—”
And there they were again, those white-clad figures, drifting in and out of sight all around them in the falling snow. As before, it was impossible to tell how many there were. That strange sound was louder now, and it was giving Seregil a headache. This time it was familiar; he’d heard something like it the last time these bastards had caught up with them in the snow.
He closed ranks with the others as they backed up to shield Sebrahn. No sooner had they done that, however, than the rhekaro suddenly darted away, heading back the way they’d come. Seregil barely managed to catch him by the arm and drag him back. Sebrahn hissed and struggled, but his eyes hadn’t gone black. Seregil kept a tight grip on his thin arm, all the while staring so intently into the falling snow that black spots danced before his eyes.
“He did that last time this lot showed up,” muttered Micum.
Sebrahn tried to pull away again, but Seregil yanked him back.
“Who are you?” Alec called out. “What do you want?”
By way of answer, a masked rider surged into view, swinging a heavy cudgel at Micum. He ducked a blow that would have taken his head off, but was knocked off his feet anyway.
Alec loosed an arrow but missed his mark. Their attacker disappeared back into the shifting veil of snow. Alec sent another arrow after him.
“You don’t get us that easily,” Alec taunted.
The strange sound began again. It swelled and the sudden pain behind Seregil’s eyes felt like a hammer pounding on the inside of his skull.
This is magic! Illior only knew what kind, or how his traitorous body would react to it. All he knew was that if it didn’t stop soon, blood would probably start running out of his ears.
Even through the pain, he somehow kept his grip on the struggling rhekaro and reached for his sword.
“Something’s happening to Sebrahn!” Alec warned. “His eyes are black again!”
Seregil didn’t have time to let go. Even through his thick clothing, he felt the sudden rush of power that flowed out from Sebrahn as he opened his mouth and sang. The power exploded around them, throwing Seregil to the ground.
Bilairy’s Balls, I’m going to be sick …
A man called out in odd, thickly accented Aurënfaie, “And you do not get us that easily, either, ya’shel.”
Seregil exchanged a stunned look with Alec; how in Bilairy’s name had anyone survived that?
“I guess we should have gone back to check on them that day,” Seregil muttered. At least the magic had stopped. He grabbed a handful of snow and filled his mouth with it as he struggled up to his feet. Somehow he’d managed to keep a grasp on Sebrahn, if not his sword. Right now Sebrahn was the more important of the two.
“If your tayan’gil makes that noise again we will kill you all,” the man called back to them.
Noise? Seregil thought. If that wasn’t his killing song, then what in Bilairy’s name was it? Something about the man’s accent caught Seregil’s attention again, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
The same voice called out, “Put down your weapons.”
Alec drew his bow and let fly in that direction. It was made clear once again that their attackers could see somehow; an answering shaft narrowly missed his head.
Alec ducked, then yelled, “You’re a poor archer, you cowardly bastard!”
“You would do well not to offend those who hold your lives in their hands, ya’shel.”
“What Aurënfaie ambushes another, except ones without honor?” Seregil called back hoarsely. “What kind of man hides behind magic rather than face his enemy?” That was said tongue-in-cheek, of course. He attacked from cover any chance he got. But the taunt had the desired effect.