“What do you mean, it’s not a bad thing to be owned?” Alec whispered angrily.
Khenir was quiet for a moment as they continued on. He looked so sad that Alec slipped his arm through the other man’s again, covering the hand that held the chain with his own. Khenir gave him a grateful look that melted Alec’s heart.
“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” Alec told him.
“Actually, it’s a better memory for me than most. I’ve had a number of masters, most of them far more…demanding. The last was the cruelest of all, the one I ran away from, and he nearly killed me. Master Yhakobin saw me during a visit to the man’s country estate. He was so…”
Khenir paused, blinking back tears. “He saw the wretched condition I was in and took pity on me. He took me away with him the next day. I am so grateful for that! He saved my life with his elixirs, and ever since he’s been the kindest master I’ve had.”
“How many have you had?”
“Too many,” Khenir replied, and Alec thought again of the terrible scars he had seen on his shoulders.
“Well, he must think very highly of you, to trust you with me like this.” It struck him then that if he made a break for the wall now and did manage to escape, it was probably Khenir who would pay the price. So I’ll just have to take him with me when I go.
“Your collar is a lot fancier than mine, too,” he went on. “I took it for jewelry the first time I saw you.”
Khenir touched it self-consciously, as if he’d forgotten about it until Alec mentioned it. “I’ve earned his favor.”
“Do masters ever let a slave go?”
To his surprise, Khenir nodded. “Sometimes, if the slave has done some extraordinary service. Or sometimes, a favored slave is bequeathed his freedom when the master dies. Usually, though, we’re passed along to the heirs with the rest of the household goods, or sold off to buy new, younger ones. It’s a frightening time, when a master dies. You don’t know where you’ll end up.”
Once again Alec sensed there was a great deal going unsaid and too many painful memories. He tightened his arm through Khenir’s and said, “There was a nobleman with Master Yhakobin today.”
“The Overlord’s legate. I served him breakfast this morning. A very powerful man, that one. Ilban was quite nervous about his visit, and what news he’ll take back to Benshâl. I hope you behaved yourself?”
“I must have. Ilban gave me tea and talked about alchemy.”
“See? It’s just as I said. Behave yourself and he’ll treat you well.”
“Do you know a lot about alchemy?”
Khenir smiled and shook his head. “I just do what he asks of me, grinding elements and cleaning the glassware.”
“He doesn’t have much good to say about Orëska magic, but I don’t see much difference.”
“Well, it’s all the same to us, isn’t it?” Khenir drew him over to the fountain. “Come see the fish.”
“Fish?”
As they approached the broad basin a pair of white doves that had been drinking there took wing. Coming closer, Alec saw that there were water lilies growing there, and clumps of small, striped rushes in sunken clay pots. Large, sleek fish were swimming among the submerged stems. They were shaped like trout, but their markings were like nothing he’d seen before. Their bodies were white as fresh snow, with spots of brilliant orange and velvety black.
Khenir took a crust of stale bread from his pocket and showed Alec how to make them swim up for crumbs. The largest would take the bread from their fingers.
Alec grinned as a very large one with an orange face sucked greedily at his finger. “I wonder how they taste?” His mouth watered at the thought of a few of those plump swimmers spitted on a green stick over a bed of good hot coals.
Khenir chuckled. “Don’t let Ilban hear you say that. These are imported from some land beyond the Gathwayd. Any one of them would bring a better price than either of us.”
“Master Yhakobin must be a very rich man.”
“And a very powerful one, as well. He’s among the chief alchemists in Plenimar. The Overlord himself consults with him often, about his son.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The boy is very young and frail, and suffers from fits no physician or priest has been able to cure. Master Yhakobin’s tinctures are all that keep him alive, or so I’m told. A courier comes once a week for new ones, sometimes more often if the child is doing very poorly. And the legate, too, as you saw today.”
So that’s why my blood was so important! If Yhakobin could cure the Overlord’s son, then he’d probably be the most favored man in Plenimar. “Why isn’t Ilban at court in Benshâl?”
“I suppose it’s a mark of how important he is that the Overlord lets him potter about down here in the country. They are on very good terms. His Majesty visits occasionally.”
“You’ve seen the Overlord?”
“Yes. A powerful and ambitious man.”
Alec tucked that information away. “You’re sure alchemy isn’t necromancy, using blood and all that?”
“Oh yes! The master despises necromancers even more than he detests wizards.” Khenir looked around, making sure the guards were still by the gate at the far end of the garden. “He also worries about the hold they have on the Overlord. They don’t practice openly in most parts of the country, but he keeps some of the most powerful at court, and Ilban thinks he relies on them far too much. It’s rumored that he uses them against his own people, just as his father before him. Despite what you Skalans think, the Plenimaran people have no love for necromancy. It’s a blight on the land, and there are those who say that the young heir’s illness is a punishment from the Immortals.”
Alec considered this as he watched the fish nudging about among the plants, looking for more crumbs. His only experience of Plenimarans before now had been at the hands of their soldiers and necromancers, but if the people were not all like that—if they hated their ruler and his filthy minions—then maybe he could find help of some sort when he escaped.
“He said that I’m important in some way, because of who my mother’s people are.”
“Oh? What clan are you?”
“Hâzadriëlfaie.”
Khenir looked at him in surprise. “Those who went north? I’ve never heard of them mixing with any outsiders. Some even say they all died years ago.”
“I never knew my mother’s people, and I don’t know how she met my father. He never told me anything except that she was dead. But later I found out that, after I was born, he took me away before her people could kill me, as they do all ya’shel. They murdered her, though, before my father could save her.”
“That’s very sad. I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s not like I remember her. I didn’t know anything about her until—” He hesitated, but damn it, he was sick of being so guarded with the only person here who’d shown him any kindness. “Ireya. Her name was Ireya ä Shaar. An oracle showed her to me. That’s all I know, really.” Except that she died to save my father’s life. And mine.
“Then you don’t even know where her people are?”
“Not exactly. The Hâzadriëlfaie kill outsiders on sight, so no one goes near their lands. Those who try don’t come back.”
“That must be difficult, not knowing the ’faie part of your family, when you resemble them so much.”
Alec shrugged. “It doesn’t matter much to me. Like I said, I never knew about them.”
That was a lie, of course. Ever since he’d been given that vision of his mother, he’d dreamed often of her face and the anguished look in her eyes as she’d placed her infant son in his father’s arms. He’d thought a lot about certain passes in the Ironheart foothills, too—places his father had steered clear of. Everyone around Kerry knew the legends about the ’faie who lived somewhere beyond Ravensfell Pass, though most thought they were just a legend. But all the old stories told around tavern fires spoke of a dark and dangerous folk
who killed unwary hunters who strayed too close to their borders.
“Do you know what Yhakobin wants with me?” he asked, tossing another crumb to the fish.
“As I said, Alec, I only do what I’m told. He does not confide in me.” Khenir stood with his face to the sun again, eyes closed and smiling now, as if he’d found refuge in better thoughts.
Seeing him like that, Alec suddenly found himself thinking, By the Four, but he’s handsome!
The traitorous thought surprised and shamed him. Where the hell had that come from?
Fortunately, Khenir took no notice.
Alec fixed his attention on the fish again, guilty and heartsick as he recalled the silly fight he and Seregil had gotten into when Seregil suggested he find a willing girl to have children for him. And here he was now, looking at another man.
Forgive me, talí!
After nearly two weeks of rest and decent food, Seregil told himself he felt a little stronger today, but after a few circuits around the room he knew otherwise. Frustrated, he acquiesced glumly when Zoriel moved the chair to the window for him and left him there with his bowl of morning gruel and a blanket over his knees, like an old man. Whatever magic the slavers had used on him, it had taken a more lasting toll on him than anything he’d ever experienced, except perhaps for the amulet he and Alec had inadvertently stolen from that Plenimaran duke soon after they met. He still had the scar on his chest from that mishap.
He gazed down into the garden, docketing again all the possible routes of escape—a tall tree, some stonework that offered good handholds, a climbing rose. From what little he could see over the wall, this was a country house, which presented other problems. A city was an easy place in which to lose oneself; open fields, probably bare this time of year, were the worst possible option.
No use worrying about that before I’m strong enough to do something about it. Feeling more useless than ever, he rested his chin in one hand and watched the sparkle of the fountain. There were some large fish in the basin that he hadn’t noticed before. That was a sure sign of wealth, though he’d already guessed as much.
Doves were drinking and bathing there, too, but scattered as several people walked into view in the covered portico. He expected the children and their nurse, but it was two taller, veiled figures. They passed from view, then reappeared on one of the paths leading to the fountain.
“Alec!” The breath locked in Seregil’s chest as he lurched unsteadily to his feet, clutching at the bars for support. There was no question; even with the veil and shapeless robe, his lover’s build and gait, and that braid hanging down the back of his cloak were unmistakable.
He’s alive! He’s alive and he’s here, in this house!
“Alec!” he shouted.
When Alec gave no sign of hearing, Seregil reached through the bars, pounding at the thick window. It would not give, and even that sound did not seem to reach the men in the garden. That didn’t stop him from shouting himself hoarse. Caught between relief and frustration, he sagged against the bars, tears rolling unnoticed down his cheeks as he drank in the sight of his talí alive and apparently well.
He’s alive! Thank the Light, Alec is alive! The words throbbed in his head in time to his frantic heartbeat. I didn’t get him killed!
He’d paid scant attention to the other man, but he scrutinized him now and saw that he had Alec on a chain like a dog, fastened to some sort of collar around his neck. He silently vowed to cut off the hand of the man who’d put it there.
Though Seregil couldn’t make out their faces, it appeared that they were on friendly terms. That gave Seregil hope. If there was one thing Alec excelled at, it was charming people and disguising his own motives.
The other man wore a golden collar around his neck, just visible under the edge of the veil. He also had the dark hair and build of a ’faie. Well done, talí. Perhaps you’ve found us an ally!
Alec and his companion walked together, arm in arm, while Seregil watched like a drowning man sighting land across the waves.
As they reached the fountain, both of them pulled down their veils. For a moment Seregil only had eyes for Alec; he looked well—better than well, actually. Even through the wavy glass, Alec had never looked more beautiful. It made his heart ache to be this close and yet so hopelessly apart. Just then, however, Alec’s companion looked up in Seregil’s direction and smiled.
Seregil’s elation curdled in his throat. He knew this face, this man. He’d haunted Seregil’s memories all the days of his exile, and his dreams, too, since he’d been here.
Ilar í Sontir. First lover. First betrayer. The man who’d engineered Seregil’s downfall all those years ago.
He slammed his fist against the window again. “You whoreson bastard!”
In the garden below, Ilar took Alec’s arm as if they were the best of friends. Seregil shuddered, feeling like he was caught in a horrible dream when he saw the way Alec smiled at him.
Seregil clutched the bars that kept him from kicking out the window and leaping down to kill Ilar for putting hands on Alec. Just one more reason to kill you, Ilar!
Ilar looked up again, almost as if he’d heard Seregil’s thoughts.
You meant for me to see, didn’t you, you bastard? You had Zoriel put me here, to be certain I’d be watching.
What followed took on the feel of a staged performance, which it probably was. Ilar touched Alec often, and they stood close together, talking like friends as they threw bread to the fish. Alec actually reached out and took Ilar’s arm. Seregil stood there, fingers going numb around the bars, hating Ilar with a passion so strong it made black spots swim in front of his eyes.
He stayed there until Alec and Ilar passed from view again, then sank down in the chair and put his head between his knees, feeling sick.
When the nausea had abated he fell back in the chair, staring out the window at the grey-backed gulls circling above the house. His heart beat so hard it ached.
How can this possibly be?
Where has Ilar been all these years, and what is he doing here?
Think, damn it! I can’t even stay on my feet. What am I going to do?
When his head stopped spinning, he slowly pushed the chair into the corner of the room furthest from the door and huddled there, sweaty and winded, clutching the empty water pitcher in both hands. He felt absolutely ridiculous, but right now he didn’t have much in the way of options.
Zoriel came at the customary time with his midday meal and found him there. “What’s this?”
“I saw your ‘master,’ down there in the garden,” he growled. “Turns out he’s an old friend of mine.”
Zoriel set the tray across his knees. “You’re talking nonsense. Eat your food.”
“Tell him I’d very much like to renew our acquaintance, won’t you?” Seregil called after her as she went out. “Tell him it’s been far too long!”
“Fool!” she threw back as the guard slammed the door.
Seregil smiled crookedly as he ate the bean soup, brown bread, and honeyed milk she’d brought. His circumstances hadn’t changed, but knowing where Alec was, even if it was with Ilar, was the first firm ground he’d had under his feet in weeks.
It had been over half a century since Seregil had met Ilar that summer at the clan gathering by the river.
My last summer there, he thought bitterly. Is that why I dreamed of it again, after all this time? Did I know he was so close?
Thanks to Ilar, he’d killed that Hamani clansman. And, in doing so, betrayed his own father, his clan, and destroyed the fragile negotiations before they could come to fruition.
Ilar was several decades older than the green boy Seregil had been then. He’d been so handsome, so charming, always with time for his young companion. He’d made Seregil feel like he was someone special instead of his father’s great disappointment.
Seregil rested his head in his hands with a soft groan. Ilar hadn’t had much trouble seducing him, and in more ways than one. He
secured Seregil’s needy heart first, with caresses, kind words, and false praise, playing the smitten swain when all the time he’d been sounding out the khirnari’s son, finding the best way to ruin him—and through Seregil, his father’s negotiations with the Zengat. Too late, Seregil had realized that this had been his “lover’s” real goal, all along.
Even after all these years, the memories were stained deep with shame. Adzriel had tried to warn him against the older man, and in time even Kheeta had grown concerned about Ilar’s hold over Seregil.
But Seregil hadn’t listened to any of them, and in the end he’d been cheaply bought. Ilar had made a game of giving him little challenges: steal a bit of food from this camp, go to the heart of another and bring back proof he’d come and gone unseen, and the like. Puffed up with his successes and the older man’s approval, he’d willingly gone to the tent of the Haman khirnari, looking for a document that would supposedly aid his father in his negotiations. Little did he guess that as soon as he was safely off on that errand, Ilar had convinced one of the Haman khirnari’s kinsman to go there as well, on some pretext.
It had been dark, and the man had surprised Seregil. They both drew weapons, but Seregil was quicker with his knife, striking out of fear and panic before he could weigh the consequences. Seregil hadn’t meant to kill him. The act had sickened him to the heart and he’d made no effort to get away.
Ilar and those who’d been his fellow conspirators were long gone by the time Seregil appeared in the council tent, shattered and in tears, with the first blood he’d ever shed still warm on his hands and white tunic.
Ilar was never seen in Aurënen again…
Seregil didn’t realize he’d been poisoned until the half-empty soup bowl slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor in front of him.
“No!” he whispered, as the room began to spin. Why would Ilar kill him now, after going to all this trouble?
But he didn’t die, or even lose consciousness. His body simply went to sleep, leaving his mind awake and frantic.