Free White Road by Lynn Flewelling

alive?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Maybe he died with Yhakobin and the others when Sebrahn sang. He couldn’t have gotten that far away.”
    Seregil looked down at Sebrahn thoughtfully. “Maybe. We still don’t know what Sebrahn’s range is. Either way, I doubt we’ll be seeing Ilar again. Let it go, talí.”
    Alec turned and looked landward. The mist was thinning, and he could make out a line of jagged, snowcapped peaks. The Ashek range followed the northern curve of Aurënen, embracing the deep blue Osiat like a giant’s necklace. Bôkthersa lay deep in the mountains to the west, a fai’thast of green valleys and sweet water. The sen’gais Adzriel and Mydri wore were that same green, the long tails of them fluttering in the wind.
    “How many tries does this make?” Micum asked as he joined them at the rail.
    “This makes three,” said Alec.
    Micum grinned. “Three’s a lucky number. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make an offering. A coin over the right shoulder for Astellus should do the trick.”
    Alec fished a sester coin from his purse and held it a moment on his open palm, letting the sunlight catch the finely stamped design. A crescent moon with five rayscradled a flame: moon and fire; Ilior and Sakor, the patrons of Skala and the royal family. The first time he’d seen one of these was soon after he and Seregil had met, and Seregil had taught him some sleight of hand. He smiled to himself as he rolled it expertly across the backs of his fingers, then palmed it and shot it up his sleeve.
    Micum chuckled. “No wonder you are such a terror at the gaming tables.”
    Alec cast the coin over his shoulder into the water.
    Seregil produced a small owl feather from his purse and let the wind take it. “Luck in the shadows.”
    “And in the Light,” Alec murmured.
    The Old Sailor was on their side this time. They sailed through a few small squalls and were pelted with sudden hail, but the wind remained at their back. Alec loved the storms, the wind, the pitching of the ship. It was exciting. But even on clear days, the Osiat was rough and they had to put in near shore each night. Alec, Micum, and Seregil sang for the crew as the ship rode at anchor, and listened to the others tell tall tales and old sorrows.
    They passed the time at cards and dice and bakshi, too, and the money washed back and forth between the travelers and the sailors. Seregil was particularly lucky, and narrowly avoided a fistfight one night when a crewman accused him of cheating, which—for once—he wasn’t.
    In the quiet of their cabin another night, Seregil’s thoughts turned to home and he spoke of old friends there, including his childhood friend, Kheeta í Branin.
    Alec had met Kheeta in Sarikali and liked him well enough, once he got past wondering if Seregil and he had been more than friends. Seregil referred to Kheeta as “cousin,” but that was common within a clan, especially among social equals; it seemed everyone was addressed as “cousin,” “aunt,” “uncle,” “brother,” or “sister.” It was hard sometimes to figure out if it was to be taken literally or not.
    Seregil chuckled warmly. “I wonder what my uncle Akaien will make of you?”
    “I hope he approves.” Alec was only half joking. Akaienwas one of the few family members Seregil had ever mentioned in their early days together. This uncle, a swordsmith by trade, had also been a smuggler. Under Aurënen’s Edict of Separation, Virésse had been the only legal port for trade with the Three Lands. However, that hadn’t stopped clandestine trade, and Akaien had brought his young nephew along. Seregil had told him stories of sailing out under a dark traitor’s moon to meet and trade with Skalan ships. The fondness in his voice made Alec think that this Akaien í Solun must be a very different sort than his brother, Seregil’s father.
    It was then that Seregil had first met Tírfaie foreigners and learned something of the wider world. Seregil also joked that