Shadows Return n-4

by Lynn Flewelling

  Instead, he was shivering in a dimly lit room, caught in the grip of Yhakobin’s guards as Ahmol carefully cleaned the cooling white spendings from Alec’s belly with a wooden scraper into a metal bowl.

  Oh hell. The cheese. When will I stop being a fool?

  Alec instinctively tried to jerk free and cover himself, but the men held him fast until Ahmol was finished.

  “Why?” Alec snarled, still struggling. “Why are you doing this?”

  Ahmol gave him a disgusted look. “Ilban say. Need your bura.”

  Bura?

  Ahmol moved hastily back as Alec began to retch. Nothing came up, but the others released him, letting him curl into a miserable ball. As he did so, he suddenly noticed that the door of his cell stood open.

  He uncoiled and shot up from the pallet, shoving his startled gaolers aside as he broke for freedom.

  In retrospect, it wasn’t a particularly well thought out escape. He didn’t quite make it to the door before one of them caught his braid and yanked him backward off his feet.

  I’ve really got to cut that off, he thought as he fell awkwardly, scraping a hip and the heel of one hand painfully on the bricks.

  A guard pinned him to the floor with a boot on his chest while the others went out.

  “Ilban not be so good, you run,” Ahmol warned over his shoulder.

  “Ilban not good anyway!” he spat back, but held his hands out at his sides to show the guard that he was done fighting. It was pointless now.

  The guard took his foot away, collected the lantern by the door, and went out, securing the door firmly behind him.

  Alec scrambled to his feet, shuddering with indignity and the cold. He found his discarded robe and pulled it on, ignoring the lingering stickiness on his belly. There was a strange bitterness at the back of his tongue that wasn’t bile.

  He gave me something to make that kind of dream! How else would he have known when to send his men?

  Back on his pallet with the quilts pulled up to his chin, Alec swallowed hard to keep from being sick again. Ilban would probably want to save some of that, too, the pervert!

  Another shudder ran up Alec’s back as he thought of the way Yhakobin had collected his tears in a little bottle.

  Nothing wasted.

  He couldn’t even enjoy the memory of the dream, knowing those bastards had been watching. That thought was too much for him. Throwing back the quilts, he barely made it to the bucket in time.

  Alec sat awake the rest of the night, waiting for the nauseous effects of the drug to wear off. The night passed slowly, and he watched the tiny window brighten from black to blue to pink, then to yellow as the sun came over the courtyard wall outside. It was easier to think now that he could see, easier to marshal his careening thoughts away from the shame of the night. One thing he was quite certain of: Yhakobin was mad. It was disconcerting to think that about someone who seemed so rational, but what other explanation could there be for a man who kept the tears and blood and spendings of another?

  Ahmol brought his breakfast at the usual time the following morning, and Alec left it untouched. When the guards came to collect him, he did his best to ignore their knowing smirks.

  “I trust you slept well?” Yhakobin said, pouring Alec a cup of tea.

  Alec gave him a sullen shrug, waiting until Yhakobin poured himself a cup and had taken several sips before he dared taste his own. It was the same good, strong Aurënen brew as before; it cut the bad taste in his mouth and soothed his aching stomach.

  “You’re angry with me, I think.”

  Aware of the whip lying ready on a nearby table, Alec kept his gaze on his tea. “No, Ilban.”

  “Indeed. But perhaps a little shocked, yes? I don’t blame you, but it was the only way. It’s not as if you’d have given up such vital fluids willingly. Really, now, it did you no harm, except perhaps to your pride. You shouldn’t even have awakened.”

  Alec’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Why do such a thing, Ilban?”

  “Each of the body’s vital essences contain valuable elements, no different than metals and minerals, and each has its use.”

  Alec’s eyes widened. “You mean, you make something from…from that?”

  Yhakobin smiled. “Oh yes, something very precious. I’m almost ready to begin. But not quite yet.” He rose and took a flask down from the tincture shelf. “We come to the final draught, at last. Come here. We must change the amulet.”

  Alec shuddered at the touch of the man’s cold fingers as Yhakobin removed the silver amulet. He tossed it into the forge, as always, then held up a heavy lozenge of gold for Alec to see. It had more symbols on it than the others.

  “You are most favored, Alec. I told you that rich men would pay dearly for the Tincture of Lead; they would give more than money for this Tincture of Gold, the highest of the natural elements.” He fixed the pendant in place and patted Alec’s cheek.

  It was only with an effort that Alec kept himself from knocking that hand away.

  Yhakobin saw and cast a meaningful glance in the direction of the whip. “This is a very special day for you. Don’t spoil the moment with one of your pointless tantrums.”

  Alec hastily dropped his gaze again, tensing. Something was going to happen now. He needed his wits about him to take advantage of any opening.

  He swallowed the tincture without a fight. It tasted like pure spring water, and had no immediate effect.

  “What are you going to use me for, Ilban?” he asked, weary, scared, and pleading. It was only halfway an act.

  Yhakobin just patted his shoulder. “You will see soon enough. And don’t worry. It’s not your life I need. Sleep well, with my promise that no more indignities will be visited upon you.”

  Alec held his tongue. Yhakobin’s promises didn’t count for much.

  CHAPTER 21 Distractions

  THERO PUSHED THE ornate scroll aside and rubbed his eyes. It had been a parting gift from Seregil’s sister Adzriel. It was an exciting project, to be sure, but he’d just realized that he’d already translated the same passage at least three times and he still didn’t know what it said.

  The afternoon had slipped by and the workroom was in shadow except for the light of the lamp at his elbow. Thero absently snapped his fingers, lighting others around the room. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his stiff neck until he was staring up through the leaded glass dome above the workroom, where the last orange and gold of the sunset still lingered.

  There were magical emblems worked into the patterns of the glass up there. Ever since he came to this tower as a boy, he’d tried to discover exactly how many there were. After all these years, he still came up with a different count each time, depending on which way the sunlight or moonlight struck the tower. Nysander had never solved the puzzle, either-though he was of the opinion that his old master, Arkoniel, had intentionally magicked the glazing to confound and amuse his successors. He’d created the mural in the sitting room, too.

  For the past several days Thero hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything as well as he’d have liked. It was Seregil’s fault, of course. The fool had probably forgotten to break the second message stick. He and Alec were no doubt soaking in some luxurious Bôkthersan bathhouse right now, or hunting with Klia in the fragrant pine forests.

  “You’re allowing yourself to fall back into bad habits,” he muttered aloud, but in his mind he heard Nysander’s gentle chastisements. He’d wasted years being jealous of Seregil-of his freedom and irreverence and the deep bond he shared with the old wizard. Alec’s arrival had softened the rivalry a little, and Nysander’s death had ended it, but old habits were hard to break.

  The truth was he was jealous of both of them right now, being in Bôkthersa with Klia.

  Thero and the princess had become good friends in their shared exile, and what Alec had begun for him, Klia and the Bôkthersan people had completed. Thero had found a way out of his emotional exile-given up being a “cold fish,” as Sereg
il loved to put it-and learned to find pleasure in simple daily interactions with ordinary people. Especially with Klia, though she was far from ordinary.

  He sighed, thinking of her: her good nature; the intelligence that shone in those eyes; the way her hair swung in a heavy braid against her back at sword practice with Beka or while riding.

  He sighed again, then caught himself at it. He had no illusions about his standing with her, of course. She’d never consider him more than a friend and ally. What would an eagle want with a crow like me?

  But he was also a man who’d discovered he had a heart, and wished he hadn’t. It sometimes distracted him from more important considerations, like why Phoria had suddenly recalled her sister’s loyal bodyguard. For over a year Urghazi Turma had languished in Aurënen, apparently forgotten. Then, out of the blue, came a new guard, all strangers, and orders to stand down and sail home. Beka Cavish and her riders had threatened mutiny, and had been roundly chastised by Klia for it. Every last one of them had wept openly as they rode away, men and women alike.

  As Thero and Klia had grown closer, she’d finally admitted that she believed her days might be numbered. Queen Phoria had never been close to her youngest half sister, and Klia’s great popularity-both with the army and with the people-could be construed as a threat. But Thero knew Klia would never betray the throne. She was too honorable for that. Unfortunately, she was also too honorable to disappear when she had the chance. She would obey her sister’s summons and accept the consequences, whatever they turned out to be.

  The day they’d parted, Klia had set his heart reeling when she’d kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Good-bye, my good friend. If we don’t meet again, know what you have meant to me.”

  He’d ridden away that day with tears burning his eyes and his heart scorched with a love that could not be.

  Giving up on the scroll, Thero climbed the stairs to the gallery and gazed out across the city-past the dark bulk of the Palace and over the harbor to the expanse of dark blue sea.

  Dark blue, like her eyes in the shadow of the forest…

  There were ships on the horizon, their sails black against the setting sun, and he wished very badly that he was aboard one of them, sailing south.

  “Fool!” he muttered, and headed for the gardens to clear his head.

  He’d actually begun to make some headway with his translation that night and found the beginning of a very interesting transformative evocation, when Wethis hurried in without knocking.

  “Prince Korathan is downstairs, asking for you, my lord.”

  “And you left him standing there?” Thero snapped. By ancient protocol, only the queen herself could enter the House without the invitation of one of the wizards, but this was ridiculous. “Bring him up at once! I’ll be in the sitting room.”

  The young servant bowed and dashed out. Thero hurried downstairs to make ready for his royal visitor.

  He summoned a jar of wine from its resting place in the snows of Mount Itheira, and set out the crystal goblets Nysander kept for special guests. By the time Wethis ushered Korathan in, his stomach was in an uneasy knot. What except bad news would bring the prince here at this hour?

  To his relief, Korathan did not appear to be particularly distraught as he entered. He’d put aside his court robes and chain of office for practice leathers, and his fair, grey-streaked hair was pulled back into a long tail.

  “Have you heard anything?” Korathan asked before he’d even taken his seat.

  “I’d have sent word, Highness,” Thero assured him. “And so I take it that you’ve not, either?”

  Korathan accepted a cup of wine. “How long does it take to ride from Gedre to Bôkthersa?”

  “Less than a week, without delays, but this time of year they might have been caught in bad weather in one of the passes.”

  “I see. Then you’re not concerned?”

  Thero traced the edge of his cup with one finger. “Not yet. Are you?”

  “Phoria is growing impatient.”

  “And she expects Klia to defy her? All the princess talked of, through all those long months of exile, was returning to fight for Skala.”

  “I know, and I believe you. I believe in her. But the longer this war goes on, the more restless Phoria becomes. She’s going to formally adopt Elani at the Sakor Festival.”

  “Then her succession is secured and she has nothing to fear.”

  Korathan nodded, looking suddenly weary. “Let’s hope it sets the queen’s mind at rest.”

  “I’ll feel easier when those fools send the signal. If they’ve forgotten, I’ll turn them both into rats when they get back.”

  Korathan chuckled. “You don’t really believe they would.”

  “No, of course not. But it’s better than the alternative.”

  CHAPTER 22 Alchemy

  IN SPITE OF Yhakobin’s assurances the night before, Alec sensed trouble when Ahmol failed to arrive with his breakfast. Since he hadn’t done anything worth punishment, something was afoot.

  That assumption took on more weight when the guards showed up and marched him through the house to the workshop.

  Suspicious as he was, Alec was not prepared for the sight that greeted him there.

  Yhakobin was standing by the slate-topped table, wearing a leather butcher’s apron over his robes and holding a short, blood-smeared knife in one bloody hand. The normally cluttered table had been cleared and what looked like a sheep’s stomach lay there in a puddle of bright fresh blood.

  I’m next on that table. Maker save me!

  Suddenly Alec wasn’t in the sunny workroom; he was miles and years away on that Plenimaran ship, watching Vargûl Ashnazai hack open the chest of one of his sacrificial victims. Alec had struggled then and he struggled now, locking his knees and desperately trying to wrench free of the hard, strong hands that held him.

  But as always, it was useless. They pulled him into the room and kicked the door shut.

  “Such a fuss!” Yhakobin exclaimed. “Take him through.”

  “No!” Alec fought even harder as they lifted him and carried him toward the door at the back of the shop, the one he’d never seen open.

  He lashed out with elbows and feet, and finally managed to catch the man on his left in the face with his arm. The man grunted and loosened his grip just enough for Alec to jerk free, then twist his other arm loose. He broke for the garden, but they caught him and threw him to the floor.

  One of them got an arm around his throat and held him still while Ahmol jammed the hated leather funnel between his teeth. Oddly enough, Yhakobin didn’t seem angry at all as he bent down to pour something into the funnel.

  “Drink, Alec. This won’t hurt you. It will make it easier.”

  Alec choked and sputtered, but most of the liquid went down his throat, spreading numbness as it went. The world went dim, then black. His last thought was of Seregil. I’m sorry, talí. I really have failed you this time.

  Consciousness returned very slowly. Alec was cold, and he was lying facedown on something very uncomfortable.

  I’m not dead yet, anyway. That’s something.

  He was hanging facedown in some sort of flat metal cage suspended six or seven feet above a dirt floor. His hands and feet were shackled to the frame, his body supported by crossbars. More metal pressed across his back and thighs. It was like being caught between two barred doors. Judging by the way the metal dug into his flesh, he was naked again.

  He could turn his head a little and, looking around, saw he was in a cellar. The room was large enough that the single torch burning by the narrow stone stairway did not light all the way to the far wall. A musty, damp smell hung in the air, with a sour tang to it, like a root cellar full of spoiled fruit. Right below him a hole had been dug, large enough to bury a good-sized dog. A mound of displaced earth lay to one side, and a spade.

  Alchemy was starting to look a great deal like necromancy again.

  Yhakobin came down the stairs, still in
his apron. Ahmol followed, carrying a large basin.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Alec demanded, straining against the shackles.

  “It is time for you to serve your purpose,” the alchemist replied. He was carrying a small mallet rather than the knife. “I’ve told you many times how special you are. This is the final test.”

  Yhakobin took a drop of blood from Alec’s bound right hand and did the fire spell. This time it burned longer, in a bright fan of every color that shifted and shimmered like the nacre on the inside of a seashell.

  “That is the proof. You have been purified properly, and the Hâzadriëlfaie blood is ready.”

  “For what?” Alec gasped, struggling harder against the restraints.

  Yhakobin reached under his apron and took out what appeared to be tap and stopcock, like a tavern keeper would knock through a barrel bung to serve his beer. But this one was far too small for that, just a few inches long, and made of gold.

  “You’ve seen my refining vessels,” the alchemist went on. “But they are not always made of glass or clay. Your strong young body is the final alembic for this process. In you, I have carried out the seven steps.”

  Ahmol knelt and tipped the contents of the basin into the hole. It was the stomach Alec had seen earlier. Both gut holes were tightly tied up with black cord, and it was covered in black symbols, like the ones he’d seen on the amulets. There was something inside that made it bulge.

  “You must have thought me very odd, for gathering your various essences; now you see the purpose. In this bag, together with various mundane elements, are your tears, your hair, your blood, and the spendings of your loins, mixed with sulfur, salt, and quicksilver, the water of life.”

  “Kitchen magic,” Alec snarled, covering his rising fear with bravado. “It sounds like a foul pudding you’ve put together.”

  Yhakobin smiled as he stooped under the edge of the cage with the golden tap and the mallet.