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 walked 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.

“I wanted to die when I was first exiled, but I was too young and scared to carry through,” Seregil admitted softly. “But after that passed, even with all the shame-Despite what you may think, going to Idrilain’s court in disgrace wasn’t pleasant. Everyone knew why I was there, and what I’d done. But a wise friend told me that if you act like a whipped dog, that’s how people treat you, and that I’d better learn to hold my head up if I wanted anyone’s respect ever again.”

“That’s easily said.” Ilar turned away and stared out at the sinking sun. “I’m so dirty.” Seregil thought he was talking of his spirit before he added, “The sound of that stream is driving me mad. Please, can I go and wash?”