Lynn Flewelling - Shadows Return

“Is it some sort of clan mark?”

“It’s nothing, Ilban,” Alec lied. “Just decoration.”

Yhakobin released his ear and went back to his reading.

Alec twisted his wrists in the manacles, pressing the spanner bar between his wrists. I could strangle him and jump from the coach.

And then what, aside from the broken bones and the lack of clothing? the Seregil in his mind asked wryly.

Before he could come up with a better plan, the carriage took a sharp turn, and then slowed. Alec glimpsed an arched stone gate, then heard the crunch of gravel under the coach wheels. A moment later they came to a stop and the door flew open. Men dragged him out by the spanner bar and hustled him quickly across a walled courtyard and through a low door. From there he was rushed down a narrow servants’ stairway, to a long, dank, brick corridor. They took several turns as Alec looked around frantically, trying to make sense of where he was. The few doors they passed were closed. His guards halted in front of one that looked no different from any other and opened it to reveal a tiny, whitewashed room. One of them took the cloak, leaving him naked again.

Someone spoke curtly behind him; Yhakobin had followed them down here.

He took something from his pocket and palmed it before Alec could see what it was. But when he then touched each of the manacles, they cracked in half and fell to the floor, taking the wretched bar with them.

“Thank you, Ilban.” Alec almost meant it this time.

Yhakobin frowned at the raw skin on Alec’s wrists. “Those fools, risking infection for no reason.”

At his order, the man called Ahmol produced a small pot of salve and rubbed it over the damaged skin.

Yhakobin seemed satisfied. “There, that should heal well. In you go, now.”

They shoved Alec into the room and slammed the heavy door behind him. He heard a bar fall into place and shuddered. Shut in, and helpless again.

“Rest now,” Yhakobin called in to him. “I’ll have food brought down to you.” There was a pause, then he added sternly, “It is customary for a slave to thank his master, Alec.”

That was too much. “I’m no slave, and you’ll never be my master!” Alec yelled, forgetting Seregil’s lessons and the sight of the slave with her tongue cut out as he slammed both fists against the door.

It opened so fast he would have fallen into the corridor if one of the guards hadn’t caught him and locked an arm around his throat. The collar bit into his neck as he was jerked off his feet and shoved face-first against a rough stone wall. Yhakobin was close behind him now, breath warm on Alec’s cheek as he held up a short, thick riding crop.

“I will be lenient this time, since you are new and we are not in public.” Stepping back, he struck Alec hard across the back. It hurt like hell, but didn’t break the skin. Nine more blows followed, then Alec was grabbed by the hair and thrown back into the cell. He came down hard on the stone floor, banging his right elbow painfully and scraping the bandaged burn on his arm. The pain drove him back to his feet. He faced the doorway, braced to fight.

Yhakobin regarded him for a moment, then smiled. “Perhaps it’s a good thing, this strong spirit of yours, though it will not make your life here an easy one.”

“It’s not my choice to be here, Ilban, ” Alec snarled, shaking with anger.

“No, but it is your fate.” With that, the door closed and the bar fell again.

Alec listened as the footsteps faded away. The stripes on his back stung like fire, but the pain cleared his head. He was acting foolishly, fighting when there was no hope of winning, and antagonizing the man who held his life in his hands. Yhakobin could have just as easily had them tear out his tongue. For some reason he’d refrained, but it would be foolish to push the man.

The cell was cold and dark. A tiny barred window set high in the wall across from the door let in a little torchlight-just enough to make out that the walls were smoothly plastered and whitewashed, and the floor was paved with bricks set in mortar.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a pallet bed piled with folded quilts over in the far corner. A long robe had been laid out for him, too. He pulled it on, surprised at how soft and clean it was. The wool gave off a faint scent of lavender and cedar, as if it had been stored in a proper clothes chest. The plain quilts smelled like fresh air and sunlight. The pallet, too, was a thick, well-aired feather tick.

It was a relief to be dressed again. He wrapped himself in one of the quilts and circled the room, looking for anything he could use to his advantage. The walls were solid and gave back the dull report of stonework under his knuckles. The door was hinged on the outside, and there was no lock to pick, even if he’d had something to work with. Stymied for the moment, he sat down on the pallet with his sore back against the cold wall, and pulled more quilts over himself.

“I’m alive,” he whispered, shivering from the pain now and feeling a little sick. “ He’s alive, too, and we’re both on dry land again. We will find each other.”

All he had to do was bide his time and keep himself in one piece. Sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself.

CHARIS YHAKOBIN WAS not a man who took any particular pleasure in disciplining his slaves. He usually left that to someone else, but this young Alec was quite a special case, and he’d already decided that no one else was going to lay a hand on him.

He climbed the stairs to the main level of the villa and crossed the central courtyard to find the Virésse khirnari waiting for him at a small wine table by the fountain pool. Ulan í Sathil was still wrapped in his cloak against the evening chill, with the hood thrown back. His white hair glimmered in the torchlight.

“You are satisfied with our bargain, Charis?” the khirnari asked in that cold, level voice of his.

“Most satisfied, though it’s a pity the boy is a half-blood.”

“But you can still make use of him?”

“Oh yes.”

“And the other one?”

“You don’t use his name, I notice. I haven’t heard you speak of him directly once.”

“He has no name. He is an outcast, and no concern of mine. I trust he will be dealt with appropriately?”

“I can assure you, he will never see Aurënen again, my friend.”

“Yes, but will he suffer?”

“I have no doubt that he will, with his new master. And now, for my part.” He took a leather folder of documents from inside his coat and laid it before Ulan. “Emancipation papers for forty-two Virésse and Golinil clan members. They will be on your ship by dawn.”

Ulan paused, hand poised over the folder. “You promised me forty-four.”

“Two have since died. Their remains have been prepared. You can still return them to their families. I do apologize, but it happened before I could purchase them.”

“Ransom,” Ulan corrected. “They are ransomed. We ’faie do not involve ourselves in the buying and selling of flesh.”

“Of course. I misspoke. Those whom I ransomed, as my part of our bargain, then.”

“Thank you. And as to the other part of our bargain?”

“As soon as a rhekaro is perfected-if indeed it is possible-and properly assessed, one will be sent to you.”

Ulan raised an eyebrow at that. “If? This is the first time you’ve shown any doubt.”

“I hadn’t seen him, much less tested him when we struck our bargain,” Yhakobin reminded him. “I had only your word that he was of that bloodline at all. And the boy is half human, after all, and that’s strong in him. I can only do so much.” He paused and sipped his wine. “Tell me, Khirnari, are there truly none in Aurënen who know of this blood property? That seems so odd, given the length of ’faie memory.”