Lynn Flewelling - Shadows Return

To his relief, Korathan did not appear to be particularly distraught as he entered. He’d put aside his court robes and chain of office for practice leathers, and his fair, grey-streaked hair was pulled back into a long tail.

“Have you heard anything?” Korathan asked before he’d even taken his seat.

“I’d have sent word, Highness,” Thero assured him. “And so I take it that you’ve not, either?”

Korathan accepted a cup of wine. “How long does it take to ride from Gedre to Bôkthersa?”

“Less than a week, without delays, but this time of year they might have been caught in bad weather in one of the passes.”

“I see. Then you’re not concerned?”

Thero traced the edge of his cup with one finger. “Not yet. Are you?”

“Phoria is growing impatient.”

“And she expects Klia to defy her? All the princess talked of, through all those long months of exile, was returning to fight for Skala.”

“I know, and I believe you. I believe in her. But the longer this war goes on, the more restless Phoria becomes. She’s going to formally adopt Elani at the Sakor Festival.”

“Then her succession is secured and she has nothing to fear.”

Korathan nodded, looking suddenly weary. “Let’s hope it sets the queen’s mind at rest.”

“I’ll feel easier when those fools send the signal. If they’ve forgotten, I’ll turn them both into rats when they get back.”

Korathan chuckled. “You don’t really believe they would.”

“No, of course not. But it’s better than the alternative.”

IN SPITE OF Yhakobin’s assurances the night before, Alec sensed trouble when Ahmol failed to arrive with his breakfast. Since he hadn’t done anything worth punishment, something was afoot.

That assumption took on more weight when the guards showed up and marched him through the house to the workshop.

Suspicious as he was, Alec was not prepared for the sight that greeted him there.

Yhakobin was standing by the slate-topped table, wearing a leather butcher’s apron over his robes and holding a short, blood-smeared knife in one bloody hand. The normally cluttered table had been cleared and what looked like a sheep’s stomach lay there in a puddle of bright fresh blood.

I’m next on that table. Maker save me!

Suddenly Alec wasn’t in the sunny workroom; he was miles and years away on that Plenimaran ship, watching Vargûl Ashnazai hack open the chest of one of his sacrificial victims. Alec had struggled then and he struggled now, locking his knees and desperately trying to wrench free of the hard, strong hands that held him.

But as always, it was useless. They pulled him into the room and kicked the door shut.

“Such a fuss!” Yhakobin exclaimed. “Take him through.”

“No!” Alec fought even harder as they lifted him and carried him toward the door at the back of the shop, the one he’d never seen open.

He lashed out with elbows and feet, and finally managed to catch the man on his left in the face with his arm. The man grunted and loosened his grip just enough for Alec to jerk free, then twist his other arm loose. He broke for the garden, but they caught him and threw him to the floor.

One of them got an arm around his throat and held him still while Ahmol jammed the hated leather funnel between his teeth. Oddly enough, Yhakobin didn’t seem angry at all as he bent down to pour something into the funnel.

“Drink, Alec. This won’t hurt you. It will make it easier.”

Alec choked and sputtered, but most of the liquid went down his throat, spreading numbness as it went. The world went dim, then black. His last thought was of Seregil. I’m sorry, talí. I really have failed you this time.

Consciousness returned very slowly. Alec was cold, and he was lying facedown on something very uncomfortable.

I’m not dead yet, anyway. That’s something.

He was hanging facedown in some sort of flat metal cage suspended six or seven feet above a dirt floor. His hands and feet were shackled to the frame, his body supported by crossbars. More metal pressed across his back and thighs. It was like being caught between two barred doors. Judging by the way the metal dug into his flesh, he was naked again.

He could turn his head a little and, looking around, saw he was in a cellar. The room was large enough that the single torch burning by the narrow stone stairway did not light all the way to the far wall. A musty, damp smell hung in the air, with a sour tang to it, like a root cellar full of spoiled fruit. Right below him a hole had been dug, large enough to bury a good-sized dog. A mound of displaced earth lay to one side, and a spade.

Alchemy was starting to look a great deal like necromancy again.

Yhakobin came down the stairs, still in his apron. Ahmol followed, carrying a large basin.

“What are you going to do to me?” Alec demanded, straining against the shackles.

“It is time for you to serve your purpose,” the alchemist replied. He was carrying a small mallet rather than the knife. “I’ve told you many times how special you are. This is the final test.”

Yhakobin took a drop of blood from Alec’s bound right hand and did the fire spell. This time it burned longer, in a bright fan of every color that shifted and shimmered like the nacre on the inside of a seashell.

“That is the proof. You have been purified properly, and the Hâzadriëlfaie blood is ready.”

“For what?” Alec gasped, struggling harder against the restraints.

Yhakobin reached under his apron and took out what appeared to be tap and stopcock, like a tavern keeper would knock through a barrel bung to serve his beer. But this one was far too small for that, just a few inches long, and made of gold.

“You’ve seen my refining vessels,” the alchemist went on. “But they are not always made of glass or clay. Your strong young body is the final alembic for this process. In you, I have carried out the seven steps.”

Ahmol knelt and tipped the contents of the basin into the hole. It was the stomach Alec had seen earlier. Both gut holes were tightly tied up with black cord, and it was covered in black symbols, like the ones he’d seen on the amulets. There was something inside that made it bulge.

“You must have thought me very odd, for gathering your various essences; now you see the purpose. In this bag, together with various mundane elements, are your tears, your hair, your blood, and the spendings of your loins, mixed with sulfur, salt, and quicksilver, the water of life.”

“Kitchen magic,” Alec snarled, covering his rising fear with bravado. “It sounds like a foul pudding you’ve put together.”

Yhakobin smiled as he stooped under the edge of the cage with the golden tap and the mallet.

Alec could only hang there and scream as the alchemist drove the sharp end of the tap into his chest.

IT WAS TOO soon to look for his kinsmen’s return. Riagil í Molan had no reason for concern until a trader of the Akhendi clan named Orin í Nyus brought him a handful of bloodstained Gedre sen’gai, an earring that belonged to Aryn with a wizened bit of flesh still clinging to the silver hook, and a Skalan gorget.

He rode out at the head of a search party that same day, with the Akhendi as their guide. The trader led them a day and a half up the coast, to a little ravine in a wooded pass. He’d seen the crows circling over it, he explained, and followed them to the pile of stripped bodies piled by a stream at the bottom.

Aryn was there, with the rest of the escort. Of Seregil and his talimenios, however, there was no sign.