Shadows Return (14 page)

“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 Aurлnen, 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 Hвzadriлlfaie.”

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 Orлska 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 Orлska 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?

The Power of Memory  

H
ABA. 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.”

Seregil shrugged as he wrapped an arm around his cousin’s waist and set off for the council site. “He’s always angry with me. At least now he has a good reason. I’ll be your brother today.

Will Mother feed me?”

“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.

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.

Tricky Business  

A
LEC 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.