“Not even back to your clan?”
Ilar went very quiet, then said very softly, “I’d die first.”
CHAPTER 27 The Pale Child
ALEC BIDED HIS time over the next few days, looking for a chance to get free. But Yhakobin was in the workroom constantly, and others with him. Alec could hear the sound of them moving about every hour of the day and night. The alchemist even brought his tinctures to him down here. When Alec was alone again he stuck his finger down his throat and vomited them up again, but it didn’t do any good. Every time Yhakobin did the flame spell, the color had changed.
There were no more walks, either, and no more invitations to tea. He was left on his own, anxious and frustrated. When they finally dragged him back into the cellar, he fought harder than ever but of course, it was no use.
Thankfully, Yhakobin drugged him again, and when he woke a few days later, weak and sore and sick, Khenir was there to comfort him.
He held a cup against Alec’s lips. Alec tasted water, took it, and drank in slow, careful sips, not wanting to lose a precious drop.
As he watched, Ahmol helped Yhakobin dig up the new rhekaro and place it on a cloth. It stayed curled up, helpless as a newborn babe. The hair and skin looked white through the filth, just like the last one, but this one was a little bigger. And just like the last one, it had no wings. Alec was almost sorry; he’d wondered if they were like a bird’s, with feathers, or just skin, like those of a bat or the tiny dragons he’d seen in Aurënen.
Yhakobin gave a terse order and Ahmol brought him the silver tincture cup. The alchemist gently pried one of the rhekaro’s hands from its chest and pricked one small fingertip. Something oozed out, but it didn’t look like blood. Instead, it was almost clear, like water or new sap. Alec thought of the wounds on the previous rhekaro. For all that they looked nearly human, they had no more blood than an oak tree.
Yhakobin caught the drop in the cup and peered in. Whatever he saw pleased him, judging by the smile that broke across his face. Khenir said something hushed and excited. The alchemist clapped him on the shoulder, then wrapped the rhekaro in the cloth and carried it over to Alec, still huddled in his corner.
“You know what is required,” Yhakobin said quietly, unable to take his eyes from his new creature.
Alec held out his hand-the left this time, since the fingers of his right hand were all sore and scabbed-and let the alchemist prick him and place the bleeding finger to the rhekaro’s lips.
Like a questing infant, it made a few false tries, then found the finger and sucked hard.
Alec nearly pulled away from that hunger. It felt like the thing was sucking the life from his body. His arm went numb to the shoulder.
“Steady,” Yhakobin warned, clamping a hand on Alec’s elbow to keep him in place. “This one is stronger than the last-a good sign.”
The rhekaro took one last pull, then opened its eyes and looked up at Alec. This one’s eyes were not dark blue, but a silvery grey, hardly darker than the whites around them. Like the last one, though, it wore his own younger face, but with a stronger ’faie cast to it. Alec touched its moist, cool cheek and thought again of salamanders. It gazed up at him placidly.
Yhakobin chuckled. “Even you are moved by it, aren’t you?”
“Please, Ilban, don’t hurt this one.”
“You really are far too sentimental. I’ve told you before, it’s not a person. And you have nothing to fear, for now. It has passed the first test.”
Alec looked over at Ahmol, who still held the cup. Something dark was floating in it, but the slave turned and carried it upstairs before Alec could tell what it was.
The rhekaro’s cool eyes were still fixed on Alec, and he looked in vain for some sign of intelligence there. All the same, he couldn’t bear the thought of that little body being ravaged and tormented.
A child of no woman.
His child. Looking into this rhekaro’s face, remembering the screams of the other as it had been torn to pieces, his chest ached with sorrow and guilt. He thought of his picks, still safely hidden in his mattress.
It was time.
Khenir helped him down to his room, where supper had been laid out. The tub had been made ready for him, too. After hanging in that cage, Alec was almost glad to come back here to such simple comforts.
Neither spoke as the slave gently cleaned and dressed him. Alec was too tense to enjoy it, straining to listen for any sound of pain from above. But none came.
“Something different happened this time?” he asked, sinking gratefully into bed and starting on the cold meat and cheese laid out for him.
“I do hope so, for your sake. Perhaps he’ll leave you alone if it is what he wants it to be.”
“Maybe.” Alec took another bite of the meat. “What was in the cup?”
The other man didn’t answer, just smoothed the blanket over Alec’s legs.
“You saw. Tell me!”
“The color of the water changed. I don’t know what it means,” Khenir replied, not looking at him.
And Alec knew that Khenir had just lied to him. The realization weighed like a stone in his belly.
The door was closed; the guards were outside. “What’s to stop him from making more if they’re so important to him? How many times do you think I can go into that cage and come out alive at the end of it?”
“Don’t talk like that, please!” Khenir begged. “If he has what he wants, then I’ll beg him to make you a house slave, like me. It’s not so bad, really.”
Alec caught his wrist and pulled him closer. “I am no one’s slave! Have you been here so long you’ve forgotten what it is to be free?”
“Perhaps I have. But what can we do? Accept your lot and make the best of it, like the rest of us.”
Alec wanted to tell him about the horn picks hidden in his mattress. He wanted to ask for his help, and somehow find Seregil and offer Khenir his freedom in return, too, but the lie earlier made him hold his tongue and Alec said nothing as Khenir kissed his brow and took his leave.
Just for now, he told himself, unwilling to give up yet on the only ally he had. When the time comes, if I can help him, I will.
He reached into the hole, needing to touch the picks, his keys to freedom.
They were gone.
And his meal tonight had come with no implements.
Stunned, he kneaded the mattress over, then turned up the edge to peer inside.
Every piece of horn was gone, the picks and all the broken bits.
Alec felt cold and sick all over. Anyone might have been in here-the guards, Ahmol, Yhakobin himself. But he knew for a fact that Khenir had been.
What was the old saying? Smiles conceal knives, talí.
He curled up in a tight, miserable ball under the covers, wondering what the punishment would be this time.
For the first time since his capture, he felt like a slave.
The following morning he was summoned to the workshop before breakfast. He expected to find the alchemist ready with the whip, but instead there was a tray of warm apple pastries and another pot of the excellent Aurënen tea. Alec eyed both distrustfully, wondering what new drug they concealed.
Yhakobin laughed. “Come now, don’t look like that! This is a day of celebration, and these excellent pastries are your reward.”
“For what?” Alec asked, still wary. Was it possible the man didn’t know about the picks, or was he just playing with him?
Yhakobin took one and bit into it. “See? They’re very good.”
Alec sat down slowly on the stool and picked one up, but couldn’t make himself take a bite.
Yhakobin sighed, then cut his own in half and gave the bitten part to Alec. It oozed juice and spices. He could smell the butter in the crust. Seeing that Yhakobin ate his own portion without hesitation, Alec took a small bite from one corner. It was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks, and it showed no signs of killing the alchemist.
“I don’t know what’s wrong wi
th you today,” Yhakobin said, cutting another pastry in half and letting Alec choose which part he wanted.
As Alec wolfed down his second piece, the alchemist rose and went to the strange little painted tent at the far end of the room. He pulled open the front of it, and inside Alec saw an iron cage. The rhekaro was huddled inside, skinny arms wrapped around its thin, sexless body.
Its hair was paler silver than the last one’s, and had already grown down to its waist. When it looked up and saw Alec, it let out a weird, high-pitched whimper.
“It’s hungry, too. You must come and feed it.”
Alec froze, and the pastry went dry in his mouth.
Yhakobin raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s the second time you’ve shown me disrespect today, Alec.”
Alec swallowed the mouthful he’d been chewing. “Forgive me, Ilban. I’m just-I don’t know what to make of any of this.”
“That’s better. It subsists upon your blood. That alone sustains it.” He pulled out his bodkin. “Come here, Alec. It’s only a few drops. Surely you don’t wish the poor thing to suffer?”
The words struck home. Resigned, he rose and let Yhakobin prick him, then squatted down and held his hand in through the bars, wondering what to expect.
The rhekaro sniffed sharply, then sprang forward on its knees and clutched Alec’s hand, sucking greedily at his finger. It was startling in its ferocity, and the strength in those pale little hands. He could feel the sharp edges of new teeth breaking through its pale gums. Shock quickly gave way to fascination. Though nearly as big as Illia, and better formed than its predecessor, it seemed more like an infant in its actions.
“Does it speak, Ilban?”
“Speak? Of course not! Why would it speak?”
Rebuffed, Alec kept his questions to himself and concentrated on the rhekaro. Its hand was cold against Alec’s, but he could feel muscle and bone in all the proper places. Apart from the lack of genitals or a navel, and its distinctive complexion, it seemed human enough. It looked up at him just then, and he could have sworn it smiled. The colorless lips, still sucking, flexed a little and its weird silvery eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. Only then did Alec realize that he had been smiling at it.
He was relieved to see that this one appeared to be unharmed so far, except for some reddened spots on its fingertips.
“You use its blood, too, Ilban?”
“What runs in the veins of this rhekaro is your blood, but in a more highly purified form.”
Hâzadriëlfaie blood, Alec thought.
“This creature’s body is at once the vessel and the athanor which refines it,” Yhakobin went on.
“What do you want it for, Ilban?” he asked before he could stop himself.
But the man’s patience was at an end. “That’s enough, Alec. It does not concern you.”
Alec went back to his cell in a daze, the taste of the pastries still filling his mouth. The rhekaro, whatever it was, needed him to live, which ensured a very narrow scope for Alec’s life if he didn’t find some way to get out.
And if I do escape, it will starve and die. It surprised him, how much the thought of that bothered him.
And then there was the matter of the missing picks. Was it possible that it hadn’t been Khenir who’d taken them? And if not, then who had them, and why?
CHAPTER 28 Seregil Follows His Own Advice
ILAR SEEMED PREPARED to take Seregil at his word regarding his pledge. The beatings ceased, and for several days Seregil was left to himself, except for Zoriel’s brief visits to see to his care. He had a few books now, and sat by the window much of each day, reading and watching for any sign of Alec. But the garden remained empty, save for when the household children came to feed the fish.
Just when he thought he’d go mad, Ilar came one evening to visit him. He was dressed in a finer robe than usual and carried a jar of wine and one cup.
“So, are you ready to make good on your pledge, Haba?” he asked, taking the chair by the window. “We will try this for a little while: I will visit you as if you are my concubine and let you serve me wine.”
“As you wish, Ilban,” Seregil said, sinking to his knees by the bed, trying very hard to sound submissive. Concubine, indeed! Bold talk for a man with no tack between his legs.
The door remained ajar, and there were several guards posted in easy earshot, lest Seregil get any more untoward ideas. If he’d been on his own, nothing could have stopped him from breaking for it right then and there. But there was Alec to think of, and so he used every last shred of self-control he possessed to gracefully pour and pass the cup, when every instinct screamed for Ilar’s blood. But he played his role, and played it well.
Ilar drank, then reached to stroke Seregil’s cheek as he knelt by his feet. “Hmm, this does have its charms. Very well, then. Let’s see how long you can be a good boy.”
Seregil forced a smile. “More wine, Ilban?”
Thankfully Ilar asked no more of him than that, and after a few nights Seregil’s subterfuge began to bear fruit. Ilar did not trust him, and probably never would, but Seregil could be very charming when he chose, especially with one so easily flattered. Little by little, Ilar began to lower his guard. He spoke more freely, revealed a bit more about Alec and what was being done to him. Evidently a second rhekaro had been made, but Ilar seemed strangely troubled about something.
And still the door stayed open and the guards visible, and Seregil played the chastened slave and humbly performed the tasks required, all the while watching and listening, and biding his time.
* * *
One evening a week or so after their truce, Ilar came in hobbling a little and lowered himself into the chair with care.
“Are you hurt, Master?” Seregil asked, trying not to sound too pleased.
Ilar scowled and shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re in pain. What happened?”
Ilar gingerly raised the hem of his robe to show Seregil a dozen or so angry red welts across the backs of his calves.
Seregil stifled a grin; they were clearly the marks of a whip. Putting on a mask of concern, he touched a finger to one of the wounds, making Ilar hiss in pain and jerk away. “Did Master Yhakobin do this to you?”
“It’s your whore’s fault!” he snarled, shoving Seregil away. “His blood is so tainted by Tirfaie filth that the rhekaro is not right. The first was useless, and the second is an enigma.”
“Maybe your master is not doing it right?” Seregil asked without thinking.
Ilar cuffed him on the ear. “You forget yourself, Haba. I’m already in a foul mood. See this?” He held out the arm with the slave mark. “That should be branded over by now. I should have earned my freedman’s mark the day that boy was delivered. It’s not my fault he’s a half-breed! Ilban knew it when he made me his promise. But still I wait and bear the brunt of his frustration. How many of the wretched things does he get to make before he holds up his end of the bargain, eh?”
Seregil bowed his head. “Forgive me, Master Ilar. I’m sorry to add to your cares.” He nodded at the stripes. “That must have hurt a lot.”
“Oh don’t pretend to care! Just make yourself useful. Here.” He took a small pot of salve and some linen wrappings from his pocket and tossed them to Seregil.
So Seregil tended the wounds. The alchemist had probably wounded Ilar’s pride more than his body, he thought, disgusted at such a fuss over so small a matter. The skin was hardly broken. Ilar had hurt him far worse and not given it a second thought. Lips pressed tightly together to hold back any snide observations, he dabbed the salve carefully over each welt as if they were war wounds, then set about wrapping the linen.
“You have a deft touch, Haba,” Ilar murmured, watching him with rapt attention. “But I suppose you must have needed it in your former line of work?” For once he wasn’t sneering. He sounded tired and discouraged.
“I did. But I wonder how you know about all that, Master?” Seregil replied softl
y, still concentrating on his bandaging. This was new ground.
“You know of a necromancer named Vargûl Ashnazai?”
The name was like a hot poker pressed to Seregil’s heart, linked as it was to memories of blood-streaked walls and severed heads chattering on his mantelpiece, and a hank of Alec’s hair knotted around a dagger, left for him to find. “He was a very memorable man,” he managed at last.
Ilar chuckled at that. “His uncle, Duke Tronin Ashnazai, is a good friend of my master. It was from him that I heard of your adventures against Duke Mardus and his cabal. Duke Tronin had the story from a nobleman who was with Mardus’s entourage. Seems he’d witnessed you killing Mardus, and that Orëska wizard-what was his name, Haba? Ander? Nander, or something like it?”
“Yes,” Seregil whispered. “Something like that.”
“It was most perplexing news, too, as I’d understood that the man was your patron in Rhíminee. Tell me, Haba, do you kill all your friends in the end?”
Seregil sat back and kept his clenched hands pressed to his thighs, biting the inside of his cheek as he forced himself not to lash out. “No, not all of them. And I didn’t kill that necromancer, though I’d have been happy to do the deed. Alec had that honor.”
“Ah. Well perhaps we’d better keep that between us, eh? Oh, and this as well.” He reached into a pocket and took out several long black slivers of what appeared to be broken horn. “Your protégé is a very clever boy in some ways, even if he is quite gullible. I left a spoon within reach and he did exactly as I’d expected, making a lock-picking tool. Earlier he even picked a padlock with a file. You must have been a very good teacher. Not that you’ll need such skills here. But you are neat-handed-a fact I mean to make use of.” He reached into another pocket and passed Seregil a clay oil vial, then propped one foot in Seregil’s lap.
Swallowing another morsel of his pride, Seregil obediently warmed some of the rose-scented oil between his palms and began to massage the offered foot. It was something else he was good at, and though Ilar never took his eyes off Seregil, he relaxed noticeably.
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