Shadows Return n-4
Page 10
“I knew nothing of it until you contacted me about all this. And if I knew nothing, then it is highly unlikely that anyone else does, with the possible exception of the rhui’auros at Sarikali.”
“Ah, yes. Your mysterious, mystic priests. Are they the keepers of your people’s secrets?”
The khirnari answered that with an enigmatic smile. “There are many stories about why Hâzadriël gathered her followers and fled north, though no one knows the truth, or so the rhui’auros would tell you. But some say that she was gifted with a vision by the bash’wai spirits who inhabit Sarikali.”
“Mystics and ghosts! My, but you are a colorful people.” Ulan’s smile disappeared. He did not move, but the air around Yhakobin suddenly felt cold and dense. “I meant that as a compliment, of course.”
“Of course.” Ulan kept him pinned with his sharp-eyed gaze a moment longer, then looked down at his wine.
Yhakobin relaxed slightly as the atmosphere returned to normal. “So, I will endeavor to make the rhekaro with what I have to work with, and then we shall see.”
“I should like to see your texts, which speak of this magic.”
Yhakobin nearly refused; no alchemist shared his precious store of knowledge, and most certainly not with an outsider. And he did already have the young Hâzadriëlfaie in hand. All the same, Ulan í Sathil was too powerful a man to trifle with. “Very well. Please wait here while I retrieve it.”
As he unlocked his workshop door, he glanced back suspiciously, but Ulan still sat at the wine table, gazing at the fountain or statuary now. After that little demonstration of displeasure, however, Yhakobin wondered if the man was somehow coercing him into revealing his precious texts. Safely inside, he went to one of the tables and placed a bit of sulfur in a crucible and poured a few drops of several tinctures over it, then drew the requisite symbols on the table. He lit the sulfur with a coal from the forge and watched the flame, which flared up yellow, then turned a deep green; Ulan was exercising no magic on him, or at least none he could identify.
Satisfied, he went to the small pavilion at the far end of the room and crawled inside to open the large casket hidden there. The lock opened at his touch, and he took out the lesser tome and carried it back to Ulan. He doubted the man, for all his apparent wisdom, knew how to read the Arcana.
“Here, Khirnari,” he said, opening the book to a chapter marked with a black ribbon. Ulan took the tome and slowly followed the tiny characters with a finger, nodding slowly. “According to this, the longevity properties are not predictable.”
“Most likely because of the differing distillation processes employed by the few alchemists who practiced this science. Each lineage has its own methodology, rather like the inherited magic of your people. And no one in those ancient times ever thought to use a half-blood, when the pure strains were so readily had.”
“The history of your people’s depredations on our shores is nothing to speak of lightly,” Ulan said quietly, and the air grew a little heavy again.
“Of course not, Khirnari. I only meant to give you an explanation of why my endeavors in this matter may be unpredictable. But rest assured, the purification and decoction of blood strains is a great strength of mine. And at the risk of seeming arrogant, I daresay you will not find another alchemist who is more adept at the art than I.”
“I do not doubt your expertise, Charis. If the process produces the elixir I hope for, then I will be pleased, of course. If it does something else, then you will of course share that knowledge.”
“Of course. And regardless of the outcome, I will continue to keep our bargain. Any member of the Virésse clan I find in the markets or households of Plenimar will be purchased-ransomed, that is-and returned to you.”
“And your traders will continue to have favored status in my ports, and in my fai’thast.”
Ulan rose and bowed to him. “Good night, my friend, and good luck.”
“Won’t you stay the night with us, Khirnari? My wife has prepared a banquet in your honor.”
The old Aurënfaie’s hesitation would not have been apparent to a man less astute than Charis Yhakobin. “I will be most honored to dine with you, but these old bones of mine will sleep better rocked by the tide in an Aurënfaie berth. One of the many prices of age, my friend. One becomes overly attached to the familiar in small things.”
“And great ones, as well.” It was no secret that the pact between Skala and the Gedre khirnari had hurt more than Virésse’s trade and shipping interests. It had hurt their pride. What Seregil í Korit’s role had been in that was unclear, but Yhakobin had been more than happy to benefit from the rift. If not for Ulan’s animosity toward the young Bôkthersan, Yhakobin might never have gained the prize he now had safely locked away in his cellar.
He let his gaze wander to the dark, slender figure standing at a respectful distance in the shadows and gave a slight nod to show that all was well. Yhakobin was a wealthy man, and a powerful one, but merciful when it suited him. He could afford to be generous now, especially to one who had brought him his heart’s greatest desire.
CHAPTER 13 Ilban
FOR TWO DAYS Alec was left in peace, but he was clearly being punished; his gaolers brought him nothing but water. They didn’t speak to him when they came with the pitcher, or to take away the pail, but no one abused him, either. He had no doubt, though, that he was being closely observed.
His belly ached and growled, but he’d known worse deprivations. By the second day he was a little light-headed, but the worst thing was the boredom. There was nothing to do but count the bricks in the floor and watch the patch of sunlight crawl across the wall. He’d tried to get up to the tiny window, but it was too high. Sitting in his nest of quilts, he spent hours listening intently, trying to imagine what lay beyond this room.
There were often footsteps in the corridor outside his door, and the muffled sounds of conversation. He couldn’t understand the words, but it sounded like servants’ talk. Occasionally he made out Yhakobin’s voice-a calm, even murmur that was always answered with respect.
Birdsong came in through his window, and the ordinary sounds of a household-footsteps, the clank of a pail, the sound of wood being split, the crowing of a rooster at daybreak, the occasional snuffle of a dog near his window, women’s voices, and the occasional laughter of children.
Just after dark the second day, his keepers came in carrying a lamp and a chair. Alec remained on his pallet as they set these things against the wall by the door, then stepped back to let in their master.
Yhakobin sat down and motioned to Ahmol, who carried in a wooden bowl and a small brown loaf. Alec’s mouth watered painfully as the smell of warm oat porridge drifted across to him. Instead of bringing them to Alec, however, Ahmol stayed by the door and looked to his master.
“How does this night find you, Alec?” Yhakobin asked, crossing his legs and smoothing the fabric of his dark robe over his knee.
The smell of the food made his traitorous stomach growl. “Well enough, Ilban,” he replied, respectfully dropping his gaze.
“Hungry?”
“Yes, Ilban.” There was no use denying it. He could see the game that was being played, but standing on pride and getting any weaker wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“You’re more reasonable tonight. I’m glad.”
“Hunger is a good teacher, Ilban.”
Yhakobin nodded to Ahmol. The servant set the food down in front of Alec and went out, closing the door.
“Please, eat,” Yhakobin said, as if Alec was a guest at his table. “I took my supper upstairs.”
“Thank you, Ilban.” Alec picked up the bowl and took a sip of the porridge. It was thin and milky, flavored with honey. He had to force himself to eat slowly so he wouldn’t sick it back up. After a few sips he tore off a bit of the bread and used it as a sop. It was still warm from the oven.
He ate in silence, aware of the man’s eyes on him, and the slight smile on his lips. Yhakobin had a sharp, intelligent face.
The ink stains caught Alec’s attention again; this man certainly had the look of someone more at ease with a pen than a sword.
He finished the porridge and set the bowl aside. “Your prison is better than some inns I’ve stayed at, Ilban.”
“You are not in prison, Alec. This is where I put new slaves, especially excitable ones like yourself. A few days of peaceful rest to help you accept your new position.”
“I’m glad you don’t have your whip tonight, Ilban.”
Yhakobin chuckled. “It’s close by, I assure you. It’s up to you whether I need it again. I am not the sort of master who delights in abusing his slaves for no reason.”
Alec nodded and nibbled at another piece of bread.
“You may ask me questions.”
Alec considered for a moment, then asked, “How do you know my name?”
“I’ve known about you for some time now. Plenimar has ears and eyes in Aurënen, as well as in Skala.”
“Spies.”
“Of course. And it was not difficult, with you and your companion making no secret of your mixed blood. Bragging about it, it seemed. Most unwise of you. Your people should have taught you better than that.”
“My people?”
“The Hâzadriëlfaie.”
Alec frowned and looked away. “They aren’t my people. I never knew them.”
“I see. Of course, you’re not a pureblood. The color of your hair suggested it, and I’ve already verified the fact, back at the slave barns. That was a disappointment, but the strain is still very strong in you. So, you are the child of a runaway. Tell me, was it your mother, or your father?”
Alec kept silent, trying to comprehend what he was being told. This is why they’d been captured? It’s my fault we’re here?
“Well, it’s of no consequence for now,” Yhakobin said, still watching him closely.
“What do you want from me…Ilban?”
“All in good time, Alec. Tell me, do you know what an alchemist is?”
“An alchemist?” Alec searched his memory. He’d heard the term once or twice around the Orëska House, and always in disparaging tones. “I once heard someone call it kitchen magic.”
Yhakobin smiled at that. “No, Alec, alchemy is one of the highest Arts, the marriage of magic and natural science. It’s far more powerful in its way than all that hand waving your Orëska wizards do, and nothing at all like necromancy.”
“But you used my blood for a spell, Ilban. I saw you.”
“Blood can be a powerful element, Alec, no different than salt or sulfur or iron. The necromancers also make use of it, of course, but not at all in the manner of alchemists.”
The food went heavy in Alec’s belly. “You’re going to kill me, and take my blood?”
“Kill you? What a shameful waste that would be! Whatever made you think of that?” He paused, then shook his head. “No, Alec, I would never kill you. I intend for you to live a long and comfortable life here with me. If you behave and do as I ask, that life can be very pleasant indeed.”
Alec suddenly sensed an opportunity. Seregil had often praised his ability to look young and innocent. He played to that strength now as he widened his eyes and asked, “Then you really aren’t going to kill me, Ilban? Or use me in your bed?”
“You have my word. Those are the furthest things from my mind. You know, not all Plenimarans are like those you’ve met on the battlefield. Our warriors are very fierce, but they are chosen for that, and trained to it. I’ve traveled a bit in your land and we ordinary folk are not so different from yours. You’ll come to appreciate that in time. Get some rest, and after you’ve had another meal tomorrow, if you behave, I’ll take you out of here and begin to familiarize you with your new home.”
“What will my duties be?” he asked, then quickly added, “Ilban.” This was getting very tiresome.
“You strike me as an intelligent young man. Perhaps you can assist me in my work.”
“In alchemy?”
“Yes. I believe you’ll be a very great help in time.”
Alec picked up his bowl and knelt to place it at Yhakobin’s feet. “Thank you for the food, Ilban, and your kind words. I’m less fearful now, for hearing them.”
Yhakobin cupped Alec’s chin and raised his face to look him in the eye. “That’s very nicely said, Alec. Of course, I don’t believe a word of it, and that’s your second mistake.” He hooked a finger in the smooth metal collar and gave it a playful tug. “You will not get far with this around your neck, my coy little nightrunner. Even if you slice the brands from your skin-and you wouldn’t be the first to do so.” Giving him a final firm pat on the cheek, Yhakobin rose and went out. The guards collected the chair and lantern and locked Alec in again.
He groped his way back to his pallet and lay down, heart thudding dully in his chest.
Nightrunner. Where in Bilairy’s name was the man getting his information?
CHAPTER 14 The Power of Memory
HABA.
Still lost in darkness, Seregil dreamed of gentle hands easing his pain, soothing his skin.
Haba…
Cool fingers traced the planes of his face. Warm lips covered his. In vain he fought to open his eyes. A dream…only a dream.
He thought he was in his bed at Wheel Street. He turned his cheek to that touch…
Alec. Talí…
Fingers brushed his lips.
No, Haba.
No, of course not. Alec had never called him that…
Darkness claimed him, pulling him deeper.
Haba!
“You’re still abed?” Mydri called through the tent flap. “Get up, Haba, you lazy thing. Father’s waiting for you at the assembly.”
Seregil curled deeper in his blankets, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to pretend he hadn’t heard.
“Suit yourself, brat,” his sister muttered, and strode off.
The air was already warm and filled with the drowsy buzz of cicadas. He could tell by the slant of tree shadows across the painted canvas that it was well past dawn. He threw back the blankets and sat up, knowing better than to keep his second sister waiting too long. Adzriel or Illina might shout for him, or come in and tickle him awake. Mydri was more likely to fetch him a nasty slap.
No breakfast again, he thought glumly, unless he could charm one of his aunts or cousins into giving him something behind his father’s back. Or he could steal something from one of the other camps; that was a favorite game lately, among his friends.
He pulled on his long white tunic and tried to brush out the wrinkles. One more thing for Mydri to scold him for. He stuck his tongue out at the thought and laced on his sandals, then made a hasty job of combing his long brown hair with his fingers. He took more care with the dark green sen’gai. When it was wrapped and twisted into a proper shape around his head, he paused a moment, then let the long ends fall over his left shoulder.
He pressed his fingers to his lips, cheeks going warm with the memory of last night’s stolen kiss in the shadow of the forest. I have a lover.
Grinning, he lifted the ends of the sen’gai and let them fall down his back. They weren’t really lovers yet. And even if they were, Seregil certainly wouldn’t give that fact away to his father by wearing his sen’gai tails over his shoulder like that.
Ducking out through the low doorway, he buckled on his knife belt, cinching it tight around his slender waist. You’ve no more hips than a snake does Auntie Alira was fond of pointing out.
She was the most likely prospect for breakfast. He was wondering if he had time to get to her tent before Mydri came looking for him again when Kheeta came barreling out from between the tents, the tails of his green sen’gai flying behind him.
“So there you are!” He came to a breathless halt and punched Seregil on the shoulder, then hooked an arm around his best friend’s neck. “Your father’s had us looking everywhere for you! He’s already poured the morning blessing. He wasn’t happy when you didn’t show up.”
“Not likely. And it’s a good thing you’re not my real brother. Father would take the switch to you!”
Seregil hugged Kheeta, glad of a moment’s peace before having to face his father’s unspoken disapproval. Again. As Korit í Meringil’s only son, he was expected to make at least a token appearance at his father’s side, though it was Adzriel, as the eldest, who served as her father’s aide.
He sighed. “I wish we were really brothers.”
People from outside their clan often mistook the two boys for twins. They were the same age, with the same lanky build-all arms and legs and restless energy-and with the same glints of copper in their dark hair. Kheeta and his family lived in the rambling clan house, too; he and Seregil had been cradle mates, and best friends since they could crawl to find each other.
Some of their other friends-clan mates and boys and girls they’d made friends with here at the summer assembly-joined them as they hurried to the open pavilion where the khirnari and elders were already gathered.
They sat on carpets and cushions spread on the grass, sipping tea as the endless arguments began for another day. Seregil wondered why so many of the other khirnari were against his father’s plan, but beyond that, he didn’t much care.
His father glanced up at him over the heads of the crowd, frowned, then ignored him.
“That’s what I thought!” Seregil muttered under his breath, though he kept his expression respectful as he bowed, knowing others were watching.
Someone always seemed to be watching him, Korit í Meringil’s useless youngest child. He did his best to ignore the sharp looks he was getting from some of the adults, resisting the urge to cross his eyes and stick out his tongue at them. Even Adzriel wouldn’t let him get away with that.
He stood respectfully until his father waved a hand in curt, silent dismissal. As he turned to go, he caught someone else staring at him from across the pavilion, and his heart skipped a giddy beat.