Shadows Return

by Lynn Flewelling

  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.

  Ilar was leaning on a tent pole, looking bored. The third son of one of the minor eastern clans, he had few real responsibilities. Even though he was older than Seregil and his friends—almost man grown, really—he still found plenty of time to slip away with them, fishing, swimming, and telling stories.

  Seregil paused and gave him a hopeful look. Ilar smiled and shook his head, but his gaze never left Seregil. The boy could feel it like heat on his skin as he reluctantly turned away.

  He forced himself to walk calmly from the pavilion, for the benefit of anyone staring at his back. The minute he was outside, however, he grabbed Kheeta and broke into a run, leading the others off for another delicious day of freedom. The broad river plain and surrounding forest were theirs to roam.

  Really, it hadn’t been a bad summer, overall.

  Years away, leagues away, Seregil moaned softly in his sleep and faint spots of color rose in his pale cheeks. In the dream, Ilar came to find him, and he thrilled to the touch of those strong, gentle fingers against his cheek.

  CHAPTER 15

  Tricky Business

  ALEC REMAINED CONFINED in the little cellar room for four more days. Ahmol brought him water for washing, took away the chamber pot, and tended the healing skin on Alec’s wrists. Alec tried to speak with him, but either the man didn’t understand or was under orders not to talk to him.

  It might have seemed his new master had forgotten about him, if not for the fact that each morning Ahmol also brought him a new book to read, along with his food. They were written in Skalan, mostly collections of ancient ballads and courtly romances. The tomes were finely bound and well cared for. He tried to read them, hoping to pass the time more quickly, but his mind often wandered, worrying about Seregil, and the driving need to find some way to escape. So far nothing had presented itself. The grate over the tiny window was solidly mortared, and too small to get out of, anyway. Apart from trying to smother someone with the feather tick or strangle him with a quilt, there was nothing in the way of a weapon to be had, and Yhakobin was always well attended by burly servants. As the alchemist had pointed out, he wasn’t the first slave to be held here. And, of course, Yhakobin knew what he was.

  The food was ample now, but plain. Each morning he received a generous portion of the same thin, sweet oat porridge and some fresh bread. The midday meal and supper consisted of more bread, an apple or some grapes, boiled vegetables, and thick lentil porridge flavored with onions and bay. It was filling, but he soon longed for a bit of meat and cheese. But meal after meal, he wasn’t given so much as a sausage.

  All in all, it was a most baffling sort of captivity.

  As he finished with breakfast on the fourth day, the men who’d dragged him here from the slave market appeared at the door. One of them held a sturdy chain and lock in his hands, the sort one tethered a dog with. Both had thick wooden truncheons hanging at their belts.

  The one with the chain motioned for Alec to come to him.

  Alec eyed the chain with distaste, but complied. At least he’d get out of this damned room. He stood still, hands at his sides, and let them lock the chain to his collar. The other man thrust a scrap of white cloth into his hands.

  Alec unfolded it and saw that it was a sort of handkerchief, with white ribbons sewn to two corners. The guard glowered expectantly at him, then snatched it back and tied it over Alec’s face as a veil, just like the one all the ’faie he’d seen so far had worn. The man adjusted it with a few rough tugs, so that it covered Alec’s face completely below the eyes, then gave the chain a jerk and led him out.

  Alec wondered if all slaves had to cover their faces like this, or just the ’faie.

  He took careful stock of his surroundings as they passed along the brick corridors. It was quite a labyrinth. His guards led him in the opposite direction from the way he’d been brought in, and this time they passed open wine cellars and storerooms. After three turns, he was led up another narrow stair. At the top lay a proper passageway. There were rushes underfoot, and as they passed more open doorways Alec caught glimpses of fine rooms decorated with frescoes and mosaics of fish and wild animals.

  They emerged at last into a large courtyard with a black-and-white mosaic floor. A long, rectangular pool lay at its center, with sparkling fountains down the center and statuary on both sides. The house had two stories, and formed a square around this courtyard. At the far end was a large archway, and what appeared to be gardens.

  Rooms on the ground floor opened into the courtyard; on the upper, there was a pillared gallery, lined with doors and windows. Under different circumstances, he’d have found it a beautiful, peaceful place.

  As they walked past the pool, he glanced through a very wide doorway and saw a large room furnished with a heavy dining table with gilded feet shaped like bulls’ hooves. There was a large bowl of flowers on a stand beside it, and the walls were painted with scenes of groves and harvests. At the far end of the room, an enticing open archway overlooked a wooded hillside. In the far distance, he could see the dark curve of the sea against the horizon.

  Even this tiny bit of new knowledge gave him hope. If he could get to the coast, he could steal a boat. His handler gave the chain a jerk as Alec paused, trying to gauge the distance and obstacles.

  As they continued on toward the far archway he caught a glimpse into a room where a dark-haired noblewoman sat beside a fire with an embroidery hoop. He heard a child’s voice and looked up to see two young, black-haired children on the gallery with a veiled woman. Her eyes were grey: another ’faie, perhaps, and certainly a slave. She looked away quickly, whispering to her charges.

  As they neared the archway at the back of the courtyard, Alec caught the scent of meat cooking, so rich and strong that he paused again, savoring it. This time his handler cuffed him on the side of the head and nearly yanked him off his feet by the chain.

  They passed under the arch and down a short flight of marble stairs into a smaller courtyard. This one was planted with trees and herbs, all ripe or gone brown with frost. On the far side stood a long stone cottage decorated in the same style as the villa. The courtyard wall to the left of it featured a large, elaborately carved fountain niche.

  Lots of handholds there, thought Alec.

  To his right he saw the entrance to yet another walled courtyard, where a large central fountain tinkled and splashed in a broad white basin.

  His guards hurried him a
cross to the cottage and knocked at the door. Ahmol let them in.

  There were no windows; instead, skylights let in the morning sun, illuminating a large workshop that reminded Alec at once of Thero’s rooms at the Orëska House. It even smelled just as bad as they sometimes did when the wizard made fire chips: a mix of hot copper, sulfur, and shit that made his eyes smart.

  The center of the room was dominated by a cylindrical brick furnace, which the Orëska wizards called an athanor. It was about four feet tall, with small windows near the top, through which the flames showed like a pair of flickering yellow eyes. A big-bellied glass retort sealed with a clay plug sat atop it. Inside, something that looked like dull green mud bubbled and roiled.

  At the left end of the room, furthest from the door, stood a miniature pavilion painted with rings of symbols he’d never seen before. The right-hand wall was dominated by a brick forge. An array of iron tongs and tools hung from hooks next to it, and baskets full of rough stones and thin rods of different metals were lined up underneath these. Small ingots of gold and silver lay in neat stacks on a shelf. Several small anvils took up a bench in the corner. A much larger one stood between the forge and the athanor.

  The remaining walls were lined with bookcases, workbenches, tall cabinets, and polished chests with small, carefully labeled drawers. One table held a collection of glass vessels on iron stands. Some of these were very like ones he’d seen Nysander and Thero use. A large glass distillation vessel was currently bubbling on a tripod over a brazier, half-full of a thick blue liquid. A long snout arched from the top of the vessel, guiding drops of condensed steam into a white crucible.

  The largest apparatus was comprised of a pear-shaped clay vessel sitting on a heavy wrought-iron tripod. A crazy array of thin, curly copper tubes stuck up from the lid like a madwoman’s hair. Some kind of distillery, he supposed.

  Overhead, hundreds of colorful cloth bags and strings of desiccated animals hung from the ceiling beams. There were frogs, rats, birds, lizards, squirrels, rabbits, and even a few fingerling dragons among the latter, he saw with a shudder of revulsion. Assorted skins and bones took up table space near an inner door, which, like the little tent, was covered with strange symbols.

  Alec rubbed his smarting eyes. There were other, more familiar instruments scattered about: a set of brass sextants, a large brass astrolabe, chisels, saws.

  One of his guards pulled him over to the large anvil and secured the end of his chain to a heavy ring on its base. Giving it a good shake to show Alec how strong the lock was, they left him there and went out, leaving the door to the garden slightly ajar.

  When Alec was certain they were gone, he went back to his appraisal of the room. Those metal rods could probably be used as weapons, and where there was an anvil, there must be hammers. If he could just smash off the lock before anyone came back—

  The chain was about only an arm span long, though, and try as he might, there was nothing within reach. The anvil was far too heavy to drag. Still listening intently, he got down on his hands and knees, looking for something, anything that he could use on the lock.

  The floor was made of wide, bare planks, and he ran his fingers along each crevice as far as he could reach, hoping to find a loose nail. He’d nearly given up hope when one fingertip snagged on something sharp. He picked frantically at it, peeling a fingernail back in the process, but at last pried out a thin metal needle file as long as his hand.

  Thank the Lightbearer! He crouched by the lock at the anvil and inspected the keyhole. It was large enough. This could work!

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then set to work. He examined the padlock closely, looking for any sign of wards or traps. Among those he’d been made to practice on, some had holes where spring-primed needles could jab out, coated with some nasty poison. He saw no signs of those, though, and set about probing delicately into the works with the sharp tip of the file.

  The lock was large and heavy, but of a simple design—probably no more than three tumblers to shift. The file was a crude pick, but it was enough. One after the other, the tumblers clicked back. Alec pulled the hasp loose and unhooked the end of the chain.

  The sudden sound of clapping startled him so badly he dropped the lock and the file. Yhakobin stood in the open doorway, applauding him. Alec hadn’t heard him approach. The alchemist was dressed in a long, embroidered robe today, and had the short horseman’s crop tucked under one arm.

  “An excellent demonstration of your talents, Alec,” he said, stepping into the room, followed by the two guards.

  Alec grasped the loose end of the chain in both hands and tried to swing it at the men as they came for him, but they caught him and threw him to the floor. One sat on his back. The other yanked his feet up in the air and held them together tightly.

  “I guessed that you were clever, but never imagined you’d be this brash,” Yhakobin told him. “Under different circumstances, I’d reward such a performance. But alas.”

  The guards held him tighter as Yhakobin brought the crop down hard across the soles of Alec’s bare feet.

  The pain was unbelievable—far worse than the whipping he’d had before. The first stroke stole the breath from his lungs, and by the third he was screaming. He couldn’t keep count, but just when he thought he’d go mad from the pain it stopped.

  The men yanked him up to his knees and held him by the hair and arms. The alchemist tossed the crop aside, then went to one of the tables and picked up a tiny glass flask with a funnel-shaped mouth. Using this, he carefully collected the tears from Alec’s cheeks.

  Alec gritted his teeth, hating himself for his weakness and for being such a fool as to tip his hand so easily. Seregil would never have made such a blunder. He held very still, keeping his eyes averted until Yhakobin finished.

  “There, nothing wasted,” the alchemist murmured, corking the bottle and setting it aside. “It gives me no pleasure to discipline you. I do it for your own good. If you actually had escaped and were caught by the slave takers, even I could not save you from the axe man’s block. We have laws here, and they must be obeyed. I hope in time you will come to appreciate my leniency. Now, what have you to say to me, Alec?”

  Alec drew in a hitching breath and bowed his head. “I’m sorry I tried to get away. Thank you, Ilban, for your…kindness.”

  “Hmm. Someday I will begin punishing you for lying, but for now, that will do.”

  The men dragged Alec back to the anvil and secured his chain with a new, larger lock. At Yhakobin’s nod, one of them grasped Alec’s left wrist and jerked his hand up. Yhakobin produced the bodkin from his sleeve and pricked Alec’s finger again, as he had that day at the slave market. He performed the same procedure, collecting a droplet of blood and somehow igniting it. It licked up in a long tongue of dull red fire this time.

  The alchemist murmured something in his own tongue, sounding pleased, then went to a table near the forge and came back with a small lead triangle inscribed with symbols of some sort, and fixed with a small bail, like a pendant.

  “You will sit still while I do this.” Yhakobin pointed meaningfully at the whip, which lay in easy reach, then bent and affixed the triangle to Alec’s collar with some wire and a set of pliers.

  When that was done, he took a tall, thin flask from a row on a nearby shelf, broke the wax seal, and poured out some liquid into a silver beaker.

  “You will drink this. Every drop,” he ordered, holding it out to Alec.

  “What is it?” he demanded without thinking.

  Yhakobin slapped him, hard.

  Alec clamped his lips tight together and kept his eyes averted.

  “Drink.” The cup was thrust under his nose. The contents looked like plain water.

  “Please, Ilban, what is it?” Alec braced for another blow.

  “Don’t turn up your nose at it, boy. That is Tincture of Lead, and noblemen have paid a great deal for smaller doses than this.”

/>   “Why? Ilban,” he added hastily, still suspicious and not inclined to believe him. Who would pay to drink something as common as lead?

  “It is the first step of your purification. It drives out foul humors. Drink, Alec, or I will whip you again.”

  The alchemist held the cup to his lips and the man holding Alec’s head pulled it back by the hair, making it hard to keep his mouth shut. Yhakobin tipped some of the tincture between his parted lips and it seeped through his clenched teeth. It had a faintly metallic taste and was oily against his tongue. Alec gagged and tried to turn his head away.

  Yhakobin gave another curt order. Alec was thrown down on his back, and a leather funnel was forced between his teeth to the back of his throat. The alchemist pinched Alec’s nose shut with one hand and poured the rest of the draught into the funnel with the other. Alec had to swallow or choke.

  “There now, was that really worth a second beating?” Yhakobin asked.

  “No, please!” Alec gasped, but men held him down and the alchemist gave him five more lashes across the soles.

  Alec managed to hold back his cries this time, but the pain was even worse as the crop fell on already swollen flesh. He was panting harshly through his teeth by the time they dragged him up to his knees.

  “That is all for today. I will see you the day after tomorrow in the morning, Alec, and you will be given another draught. I suggest you remember the lessons of today.”

  His guards pulled him to his feet and Alec choked back a cry of pain. His feet were swollen from the beating and burned like fire. They laughed as they hoisted him by the arms and dragged him from the room.

  By the time they reached the cellar stairway he was beginning to feel queasy, and by the time they reached his cell, his bowels were boiling and his throat was filled with bile. He barely made it to the slop bucket before erupting at both ends.