Lynn Flewelling - Shadows Return

“You don’t want to tire yourself out, your first day up,” Zoriel scolded when she returned with his midday meal. “Back to bed with you now!”

Seregil wasn’t about to argue. He’d used up what strength he possessed just sitting up. His legs were dangerously wobbly as he crossed the short distance to the bed. He played up the weakness for her benefit, and even went so far as to beg her to feed him his soup. She clucked her tongue at him, but his request must have pleased her, for her old eyes were kind as she spooned it into him. She was less fearful when he seemed weak, he guessed.

Seeking to capitalize on her good mood, he finished off the soup and bread, then asked, “You’ve never told me the master’s name. Why is that?”

He caught a flash of the distaste he’d noted that morning as she sniffed and replied, “I haven’t been told to tell you.” She dabbed a bit of broth from his cheek with a napkin.

“Well, I wish I knew whom to thank.” He sighed happily, folding his arms behind his head. “I knew worse accommodations when I was free. Does the master treat all his slaves like this?”

“No,” she told him curtly, and that curtain of fear came down between them again.

Trying a different tack, he gave her a sad look. “I’m not asking you to disobey any orders, but it eats at me day and night, wondering what my fate’s to be.” He dropped his gaze and let his voice falter a little as he plucked at the metal collar. “I’m scared, old mother, if truth be told. And all this, it just makes me more fearful. Why would he be treating me so well, unless he meant me for-” He managed a convincing grimace. “For his bed. Is he like that?”

“Him?” She scowled and shook her head. “That wouldn’t be for me to say, even if I knew. Here, finish your own bread and leave the tray on the floor. I’ve tasks waiting.” She went to the door, but paused before knocking for the guard. “Savor your leisure while you can, young son. You’ll soon learn that, in our way of life.”

Seregil mulled over her words as he finished the last of the bread. At best, this nameless master of hers must be strict in his ways; at the worst? That remained to be seen.

He tried to rest, but his thoughts turned to Alec and set his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. He got out of bed again and made his way slowly back to the window. Sweating and winded, he collapsed into the chair and rested his arms on the sill.

It appeared to be a formal courtyard. There were no stables or workshops, just neatly planted beds laid out between paths made of something very white-stones or shells, probably-around the fountain. He couldn’t see a gate from this angle, but guessed that if he did somehow manage to get out through the window and down to the ground without breaking his legs, he’d still have to make his way through the house or go up a wall and over the roof. He wasn’t capable of either just yet.

Of course, that all turned on how he was going to get out. The window was not an option-the bars were solidly set and too closely spaced even for someone as slim as he to wiggle through. The window casement was nailed shut, and the glass was so thick he couldn’t even hear the splashing of the fountain.

He felt stronger the next day, and as soon as Zoriel left him alone after breakfast, he made a slow circuit of the room, looking for anything he’d missed so far. He didn’t much care if anyone knew. Deep down, some rebellious part of his nature hoped word would get back to “Master.”

It took a discouragingly long time to finish looking under the bed and between the floorboards for something he could use as a tool or a weapon, but he forced himself to finish. There had to be something, anything that would be of use!

But he found nothing. “As if he’s going to leave a knife under the bed for me, or a hank of rope,” he muttered, slumped in an exhausted heap by the door. All he had to work with was a wooden pitcher, which might do in a pinch, once he was strong enough to swing it. Zoriel didn’t even leave the chamber pot in the room. He had to ask for that-a humiliating necessity-and she took it away when he was done.

He fingered the collar again. It was getting to be a habit. He’d found where it was riveted shut, but the seam was tight, with no play in it at all. No surprise, there.

The bed was too sturdy to pull apart. The mattress was a heavy one, stuffed with straw and feathers. He dragged himself into bed and rammed an ineffectual fist into the single pillow he was allowed. That wouldn’t make much of a weapon, either, unless he wanted his keepers to laugh themselves to death.

You’ve got me well and truly penned, whoever you are! he thought, twisting a corner of the pillow between nervous fingers. He didn’t know much about how the Plenimarans treated their slaves, but he was convinced that this situation was unusual. If not for the brands on his skin, he’d have guessed he’d been taken instead for a ransom.

Not that there’s anyone left in Rhíminee who’d pay to have me back.

Defeated for now, he closed his eyes and tried instead to summon some new memory of the capture or the sea passage, hoping for some sign that he’d seen Alec alive after the dra’gorgos attack.

And still, nothing more came to him. He’s not dead! I’d know if he was dead. I’d feel it! The thought consumed him. The talimenios bond ran deep between them, a joining of souls; I’d know if that was broken!

He clung to that, but the cold black fear crept back anyway. Curled up under the warm bedclothes, clean and safe for now, guilt overwhelmed him. Everyone in that ambush had been targeted for death-everyone but him. Oh talí! If you were killed, because of me …

“Damnation!” He hurled the pillow at the door in impotent rage, then lurched out of bed and threw the pitcher after it. It bounced ineffectually off the door, spraying water everywhere, and landed back at his feet, mocking him. He kicked it across the room, hardly noticing the flash of pain as he cut one bare toe on the handle, and staggered across the room to pound on the door.

“Show yourself!” he yelled. “Tell me why I’m here, you coward! Let me out of here, you pus-dripping horse prick!”

His only answer was the thump of a fist from outside and the muffled sound of someone laughing at him.

“Bastard!” Seregil slid down the wall with his head in his hands and choked back a sob. “Dirty bastards!”

Alec is not dead!

He could be.

No, he’s not; he’s not!

I might never know…

Weak, scared, and frustrated beyond all telling, he pressed both hands over his mouth and cried.

ALEC’S INTERACTION WITH Yhakobin followed an unchanging pattern. Every other day he was taken out to the workshop and his amulet was changed to one corresponding to the tincture given. Every moment he was out of his cell he watched for an opportunity to get away, but so far it had been impossible. He was kept under close watch every moment he was out of his cell. If this continued, he’d be forced to make a break for it from one of the courtyards and hope for luck.

The one between the main house and the alchemist’s workroom appeared to be the best bet, and he’d memorized every tree, rough bit of stone, and vine. The wall fountain was very promising, as was the thick climbing rose that grew up the side of the workshop. It would tear the skin from his hands and feet for sure, but that would be a small price to pay.

The alchemist had seemed very pleased when, the day after he’d spoken with Khenir, Alec began accepting the silver cup without a fight. The tin amulet was exchanged for one of iron, then one of copper.