Shadows Return

by Lynn Flewelling

  The bastard did poison me! he thought in despair as spasm after excruciating spasm ripped through him. What a shameful way to die.

  He didn’t die, but ended up sprawled shuddering on the floor, one cheek pressed to the cool bricks. Ahmol appeared soon after and quickly cleaned up the mess, carrying away the muck. Alec was too weak to resist or care when the man returned with a basin and cleaned him, then dragged him onto his pallet and threw the quilts over him.

  “Ilban say, this good,” Ahmol told him in halting Skalan.

  “This is not good!” Alec groaned.

  Alec lay there panting and cursing Yhakobin for a liar as the servant finished doing whatever he was doing across the room. Raising his hand to his collar, Alec gripped the strange amulet—for he guessed it was something of the sort—and tugged weakly at it. It was warm to the touch and bent easily between his fingers.

  Ahmol was suddenly there and pulled Alec’s hand away, shaking his head. For the first time, Alec saw the slave brand on the man’s forearm. It seemed he’d been right about the veils. Only ’faie slaves wore them.

  The other slave patted his shoulder and said something in his own language, probably urging him to sleep. Alec curled up on his side and realized he felt a little better. Perhaps he’d purged whatever poison the alchemist had fed him. The thought gave him some satisfaction as he drifted into an unhappy doze.

  He slept deeply that night and dreamed that Seregil was somewhere outside, calling for him. In the dream, the cell door opened at a touch and no guard stopped him as Alec stole cautiously out into the courtyard. The place was deserted, silent save for the sound of the fountains. He could still hear Seregil calling but couldn’t tell where he was. His voice seemed to come from all sides at once.

  He woke in a sweat. The cell was dark and silent. Throwing an arm across his face, he slept again, caught in the same frustrating dream.

  CHAPTER 16

  Kindness of Kindred

  ALEC WOKE FEELING exhausted and achy, with no appetite for his morning porridge, even though it smelled of honey and nutmeg today.

  Must be my reward for surviving the night, he thought sourly, turning his back on it.

  They left him alone that day, and he spent most of it sleeping. When nature forced him up to the slop bucket, he could barely walk, his feet were so swollen and sore. By evening he felt well enough to eat the bean soup and bread Ahmol brought him. He sat awake in the dark afterward, unable to sleep.

  It was maddening, having nothing to do, and unable to see anything except a little patch of moonlit sky through the bars. He prayed in earnest, softly singing songs to Dalna, his cradle patron, and wondered if the Maker listened to him anymore, after so many years following Illior. All the same, it left him feeling a little better.

  The guards came for him after breakfast the next morning. They thrust him into a clean wool robe and marched him upstairs on bruised feet to begin the whole nasty procedure again.

  Just as before, he was chained to the anvil and left alone. The glass vessels were empty today, the braziers all cold, but a metallic smell hung over the room, underscored by other odors he did not recognize.

  This time he knelt where they left him and didn’t move until Yhakobin entered.

  “Being a good fellow today, I see,” the alchemist said, smiling that placid smile of his. “How are you feeling?”

  “You—I was unwell, after that draught you gave me,” Alec managed, then added a hasty “Ilban.”

  “That’s good. Tincture of Lead does have a purgative effect. Your finger, please.”

  Knowing what would happen if he balked, he held out his hand. Yhakobin took the blood and this time it burned a much brighter red.

  Alec blinked at the brief flash of color and resisted the urge to ask questions. The alchemist was clearly pleased.

  Yhakobin removed the lead amulet and replaced it with another that looked like lead but was lighter against Alec’s throat, with black symbols incised on it. The guards held Alec’s head as Yhakobin poured something into the silver cup.

  “This is Tincture of Tin,” Yhakobin told him, holding the cup down where he could see into it. “The effects are quite different. I do not think you will find them unpleasant. It is only a tonic, to purify the blood.”

  This tincture looked exactly like the last draught to Alec. Before he could stop himself, he jerked back, kicking Yhakobin by accident. The contents splattered across the front of the man’s dark robe.

  Yhakobin looked more resigned than angry as he nodded to the guards. This time they held Alec down over a bench and Yhakobin whipped the backs of his bare thighs. It was bad, but nothing like the beating of his feet. He didn’t make a sound this time, and he didn’t cry.

  When it was over they held him down and jammed the hated funnel between his jaws. This new tincture burned as it went down and warmed his belly like Zengati brandy. The feeling persisted as he was dragged back to his cell, but this time the only effect it had on him was a heavy lethargy. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. Giving up, he collapsed on his bed and wrapped a hand around the new amulet. As he slipped into a daze, it occurred to him that this one was once again probably of the same metal as the tincture. It made no sense to him, this use of metals, but clearly there was some magic to it.

  He slept deeply all day and into the night, rousing only when a servant brought him water and a bland vegetable broth to drink. Though still groggy, he roused enough to realize that it was a different person than the usual guards or Ahmol leaning over him.

  “Hello, little brother. Are you awake?”

  This man was Aurënfaie, with a long braid of dark hair. Alec lurched up and reached for him, thinking it was Seregil, come to free him at last, but as his eyes adjusted to the light of the small lantern the stranger had brought, he saw that this man was older, and that his eyes were hazel-colored, like Nyal’s, rather than Seregil’s clear grey. Could this be the slave who’d been with Yhakobin at the market? He hadn’t been able to tell the color of that man’s eyes.

  “No veil,” Alec mumbled, blinking, as he tried to wake up.

  The slave held up a square of lace-trimmed linen and winked at him. “Promise not to tell? I thought you could do with the sight of a friendly face.”

  Alec managed a wan smile as he caught sight of the collar the man wore. It was thin and polished, very much like his own, but was made of gold, or gilded. “Thank you. You’re the one I saw at the market, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, holding a cup of water to Alec’s lips and helping him drink. “Ilban thought the presence of another ’faie might reassure you. My name is Khenir.”

  He wore a slave’s long, sleeveless robe, but his was made of fine dark wool, with bands of white embroidering at the neck. Glancing down, Alec saw that he wore wide golden bracelets, too. The slave brand on his forearm was old and faded, like Ahmol’s.

  Khenir pressed a cool hand to Alec’s brow. “How are you feeling?”

  “So tired,” Alec mumbled, still thick-tongued from the draught but determined to stay awake and talk to this man. “What clan are you?”

  Khenir shook his head sadly. “If you knew how long it has been since anyone asked me that! I was from Tarial clan, a minor family in the south, near Datsia. And you?”

  Alec sat up and rubbed at his face to clear his head. “No clan. I’m ya’shel, from—” He paused, catching himself. He wanted to trust this man, but he couldn’t let himself forget that he was just a slave, owned by the same man, and possibly loyal to him. Alec had made enough stupid blunders already. “From Skala.”

  Khenir pointed at Alec’s left earlobe. “You didn’t get that dragon bite in Skala.”

  “I’ve been to Aurënen,” Alec admitted. “But my father was Tír.”

  “Ah. Drink some more. You need it,” Khenir urged, placing the cup of broth in his hands. “I’ve never known Ilban to purchase a half-breed before. He’s usually so particular.”

  “Why’s that?” Ale
c asked, between sips of broth. His belly growled, hungry for more substantial fare.

  “The high-ranking men of Plenimar prefer pure blood in their slaves, just as they do with their horses and hunting dogs,” Khenir whispered, more resigned than bitter. “The ya’shel usually go to merchants’ households, or the brothels, or get sold off to the countryside as farm labor. You’re very lucky.”

  That was a matter of opinion. “Are there others in the house? I saw a veiled woman.”

  “A few. That’s Rhania, the children’s nurse.” He took the empty cup from Alec and gave him one filled with water. “You’re to drink this, and this.” He held up a wooden pitcher. “Ilban means you no harm, but his purifications can be a bit hard on the body.”

  “Is that really all this is?” Alec fingered the amulet at his throat. Khenir’s collar was unadorned.

  “Don’t worry. Ilban would never harm you.”

  “Oh, really? Have a look at my feet.”

  “That was just a beating. We’ve all had those. But Ilban is very kind, as masters go. Now let me tend your brands.”

  Alec held out his arm and Khenir untied the bandage. The burn was healing clean, and quickly. There was hardly any redness around the scab. “I’m starving. Doesn’t Yhakobin ever give his slaves meat?”

  Khenir gave him a warning look. “Even between the two of us, you must refer to Ilban by his title. What if someone were to overhear? As for meat?” Khenir shook his head. “You’re a slave, Alec, so you’d have to please Ilban a great deal to get any of that. I can’t think the last time I tasted any. They think it keeps us docile.”

  Alec didn’t feel docile yet, just resentful and hungry.

  Khenir dabbed an aromatic salve on the burn. “They have many ways of taming us, little brother. They’ve made an art of it. I hear it’s worst for those with manifested powers.”

  “I’m safe, then. That slop pail has more magic to it than I do. I suppose I should be glad. A slave on the ship showed me the scars where he’d been whipped. And gelded. At least they didn’t do that to me.”

  Khenir carefully worked the bandage away from Alec’s leg. This one had seeped and the wrappings had stuck to the scab. “Not yet,” he murmured.

  “What do you mean, ‘not yet’? He told me he wouldn’t!”

  Khenir shrugged. “Perhaps Ilban means to breed you, then, or sell you when he’s through with you. Intact young slaves often fetch a better price.”

  Alec pondered that uneasily. “He said it’s my blood he wants.”

  “Well, Ilban is an alchemist, after all. It must be something to do with that.”

  He leaned forward to work at the soiled leg bandage and his tunic pulled back from one shoulder, revealing the faded white stripes of lash marks, just like the ones Alec had seen on the ’faie aboard the slaver ship.

  “Did he do that to you?” asked Alec.

  “Oh, no! Ilban is not my first master.”

  “You fought back, too, didn’t you?”

  “For all the good it did.”

  “And did they—?” Still rocked by what Khenir had implied, he glanced down at the other man’s lap before he could help himself.

  Khenir looked up sharply. “You never ask a slave that! Do you understand? Never!”

  “I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking.”

  Khenir sighed and went back to work. “You’re new to all this. Sometimes I forget what that’s like. I’ve been here a very long time, you see.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alec said again, feeling miserable. Khenir’s reaction was answer enough.

  “Drink your water.”

  Neither spoke as Khenir finished with the bandaging and gathered up the soiled linen strips and empty cups.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Alec ventured, as Khenir stood and fastened the lace-trimmed veil across his face. “Do you have to go?”

  The man leaned down and stroked his hair. Without thinking, Alec closed his eyes and leaned into the touch; it felt like years since anyone had touched him with anything like kindness.

  Khenir smiled sadly and trailed his fingers down Alec’s cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as it’s allowed, I promise. Just do as you’re told. It will be better for you if you do, and perhaps Ilban will give you more freedom in the house.”

  He went out and took the candle with him. Alec groped in the dark for the pitcher. The tincture had left him thirsty.

  More freedom, eh? Alec pulled the quilts up to his chin. A little moonlight found its way through the grate, and he could see the white puff of his breath on the air.

  He knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up too much, but Khenir had unwittingly given him a great deal of useful information. There were at least two others like him here, and if he could lull “Ilban” into giving him the run of the house, as Khenir and the nurse evidently had, then sooner or later he could find a way to escape. Given the very real possibility of having his balls cut off, sooner would be better. So, he reasoned, he’d play the good slave and take the tinctures, and use every opportunity he had to learn the layout of the house. But he’d have to be very careful. Yhakobin had made it clear that he knew too much of Alec’s past to be fooled easily.

  Burrowing down into the deeper warmth of the quilts, he kissed his palm and pressed it to his heart. Keep well, talí, and don’t think I’ve forgotten you. I’ll get out of here and I’ll find you, no matter what it takes.

  As he drifted off to sleep, hoping for dreams of Seregil, it occurred to him to wonder what had happened to the other slaves Khenir had alluded to, the ones their master preferred.

  CHAPTER 17

  Kind Words. Bad News

  “HABA?”

  Cool fingers and Adzriel’s scent brought Seregil close to the surface of waking again. He dreamed of her face, sometimes smiling and kind as she almost always had been, during the years she’d raised him. But in other dreams he was a child again, standing before the judges at Sarikali with blood on his tunic, and she was weeping.

  And always that pet name—Haba, “little black squirrel”—whispered close to his ear. Adzriel had called him that first, and then only the ones who loved him—his friends, Kheeta, his sisters…

  Another, too.

  Haba, come back to us.

  Haba, wake up.

  Wake…

  “Are you awake at last? Open your eyes and show me.” A woman’s voice, speaking in Aurënfaie.

  Seregil let out a soft groan as someone lightly slapped his cheek. “Mydri, don’t. Sick.”

  “Wake up, now. You must drink something.”

  Consciousness returned slowly. At first he was aware only of a tremendous heaviness, then that scent, and of how hard it was to open his eyes. Something cool and moist passed across his eyelids, then his brow and cheeks. Someone was washing his face.

  “Adzriel?” It came out a faint, cracked whisper. His mouth was so dry, and his tongue felt thick. “Where—?”

  He didn’t recall reaching Bôkthersa. Something had happened…

  “Open your eyes, young son.”

  Young son? It was said in the formal style, rather than familial. His gummy lids parted at last and he found himself in a curtained bed in a dimly lit room. A candle burned somewhere beyond the bed curtains and someone sat beside the bed, a dark shape, with no visible face. A scrap of memory stirred—a dark, faceless shape lurching at him, a horrid, rotting stench…

  A dra’gorgos!

  But there was nothing but the scent of wax here, and the faintest whiff of Adzriel’s perfume still lingering in the air. Too weak to reach out or even turn his head, he blinked up at the woman, needing to hear a friendly voice.

  “Ah, that’s better.” A woman, certainly, but not any of his sisters.

  “Where—?” he asked, his voice a raw whisper.

  “Hush, now, and stay still. You’ve been terribly ill.” As she leaned forward and brought a horn spoon to his lips, his saw that she was very old. A long white braid hung over one shoulder, and what he
could see of her face above an embroidered veil was lined with age.

  Cool sweet water trickled over his parched tongue and he swallowed eagerly, though it hurt like fire. He opened his mouth for more.

  The faded blue eyes above the veil crinkled at the corners, revealing her hidden smile. “There now, a little more. Slowly though. We didn’t think you’d live, young son.”

  “Who didn’t?” he rasped between sips.

  She just shook her head a bit as she gave him more water.

  “My sister,” he tried again, thinking she might be a bit deaf. “I thought—”

  “Adzriel, is it? You called on her more than once. That’s your sister?”

  “Is she here?” He hadn’t dreamed her scent. He could still smell it.

  “No, and be thankful for that,” she replied, shaking her head.

  “What? Please, tell me where I am,” Seregil begged.

  “In the house of our master, of course.” Age-knotted fingers stole to a silvery circlet at her withered throat. Then Seregil noticed the faded round brand on her forearm.

  “You’re a slave?”

  “Of course. As are you.” She reached out and tapped something around his neck.

  “What is that?” he demanded, though he already had a pretty good idea.

  “Your collar, young son. You’re a slave now, no different than the rest of us. Seeing the size of that dragon mark on your hand, I’m surprised you ended up here. Maybe the luck of it ran out, eh?” She rose slowly and stepped away from the bed. “Rest now. I’ll bring you something to eat in a little while.”

  “No, wait. Please!” He heard the soft sound of a door closing.

  Frustrated and confused, he stared helplessly up at the dark canopy over the bed. He had to gather his wits, and soon!

  But it was so hard. He felt sluggish, drugged. The struggle to think made him short of breath, as if he were climbing a mountain rather than lying flat on his back.