Lynn Flewelling - Shadows Return

“I use him for warmth, like a campfire. Nothing else.” He gave Seregil an oddly appraising look. “What about you?”

“The same,” Seregil replied, but in the back of his mind, a little doubt niggled. Alec saw through him in an instant. “I can’t explain it, talí. I don’t want him. I don’t like him! I just can’t seem to hate him anymore. As soon as we get away from Plenimar we’ll send him on his way, I promise.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes. Just like that.”

Alec let it drop, but only after giving Seregil a skeptical look that cut him to the heart.

By the time the first hint of dawn showed that morning, Alec could tell by the scent on the breeze that they were finally nearing the ocean. He waited until the sky brightened along the horizon, then pointed off to the southwest. “There it is. The Strait!”

Between the still-dark land and the golden lip of the horizon, a dark strip of ocean curved into the hazy distance. Beyond that, out of sight, lay Aurënen, and safety.

“I don’t believe it!” whispered Ilar. “We might actually make it.”

Seregil gave him a crooked grin. “Two nights. Three at most. I hope you have a good stomach for sailing, my friend.”

Friend? Alec’s own grin died-not for all the days Ilar had slept beside Seregil, or for his betrayal of Alec in Yhakobin’s house. No, it was the way Seregil had called Ilar “friend.” It sounded almost like he meant it.

“Come on!” Seregil urged, not noticing.

They came across a rutted dirt track leading south and gave it a wide berth. They skirted a small hamlet, too, and finally took refuge in a lonely copse of trees next to a stream. It was less than ideal, but the sun was up and they couldn’t risk being caught out in the open.

There was plenty of dry wood lying around, and after some consultation, he and Seregil decided to risk a small fire. The three of them breakfasted on boiled water and a few slices of raw turnip. It wasn’t very filling but the heat felt good in their bellies. They kept the rest of their scant provisions-a few more turnips, two wizened apples, and some cooked meat from the skinny coney Alec had killed two days earlier-in the rag sack, hoping to eke them out one more day.

He and Seregil took turns on watch through the day. It was a sheltered spot and the sun had come out at last, so Ilar was left to sleep by himself again.

Seregil was on watch late that afternoon, burning wood ticks from his arms and legs with the hot tip of a stick, when Ilar woke and scratched glumly at his own dirty clothing and hair. Moving carefully past Alec, who was still asleep with Sebrahn, he walked over to Seregil and whispered, “You’ll have to show me how to do that. I itch all over. I have to piss, too. May I have some privacy?”

Ilar always went off by himself, and in the dark, too, to attend to bodily functions. Seregil was about to object, then thought of the gelding scars Ilar had shown him. “Go on, but stay inside the trees.”

Ilar stepped behind a large trunk and a moment later Seregil caught sight of a bare, bent knee sticking out from behind it.

Of course, he has to squat. He looked away, more affected by the sight than he thought possible. He remembered that body the way it had been, strong and whole and pressed close to his…

Seregil threw his stick into the fire and went to make a circuit of their little hiding place, looking for any signs of life and trying not to think about the man.

Ilar, however, followed him. “I’m hungry.”

“We’ll eat when Alec wakes up. Have all the water you want. The stream is good.”

Ilar drank deeply and capped the skin. Then he turned and looked back to where Alec lay asleep on the ground. “So that’s what you can love, eh? Can’t say I blame you. He has a kind heart.”

“Not for those who betray him,” Seregil retorted softly.

“I’m sorry about that. What choice do you think I had? Ilban ordered it and I had to obey.”

“Stop calling him that! You’re free now. Aurënfaie don’t have masters.”

Ilar’s soft laugh was bitter. “Can either of us call himself that anymore?”

“That’s the blood that runs in our veins, no matter what anyone says, or does to us.”

“I see. Well, I’ll try to take your advice, until someone sees me naked. I’ll be quite the darling of the baths, won’t I?”

“Self- pity is not a very productive emotion, you know. Or an attractive one.”

“Forgive me, Ilban,” Ilar returned with heavy sarcasm.

Seregil bit back a snide remark, not wanting to wake Alec. Even asleep, the younger man had dark rings of exhaustion under his eyes. He lay curled on his side with his head on the bundle, with Sebrahn nestled against his chest as always.

“I wanted to die when I was first exiled, but I was too young and scared to carry through,” Seregil admitted softly. “But after that passed, even with all the shame-Despite what you may think, going to Idrilain’s court in disgrace wasn’t pleasant. Everyone knew why I was there, and what I’d done. But a wise friend told me that if you act like a whipped dog, that’s how people treat you, and that I’d better learn to hold my head up if I wanted anyone’s respect ever again.”

“That’s easily said.” Ilar turned away and stared out at the sinking sun. “I’m so dirty.” Seregil thought he was talking of his spirit before he added, “The sound of that stream is driving me mad. Please, can I go and wash?”

Seregil hesitated, tempted by the idea himself. They hadn’t seen or heard anyone all day, and just down the hill from where they sat, the stream curved in among the trees. The sun was nearly down and stars were already showing through the branches overhead. “All right. We’ll keep watch for each other.”

Seregil went first. Leaving his sword within easy reach, he stripped off his coat and squatted on the muddy bank, trying to wash away the sweat and stink. He glanced down at his right arm where the brand had been, glad not to go the rest of his life with that kind of reminder in plain sight. Bad enough that he’d let himself and Alec be taken like that; he felt most guilty at how long it had taken him to get loose again.

Long enough for that thing to be made. And he loves it, too, as if it really were his child. Seregil bent to rinse his hair in the current, thinking again of the oracle’s prophecy. If this wasn’t the fulfillment of it, then it was damn close.

The cold water felt wonderful against his sweaty scalp. He stayed there a moment, then sat up and shook his head like a dog, scattering droplets in all directions.

“Now I’m wet, too.”

Seregil looked back over his shoulder and was startled to see Ilar standing close beside him. He is a ’faie, after all, he thought, but still disliked having the man creep up on him like that.

Ilar wiped his face on his sleeve, leaving a streak of wet dust on his cheek. “That much less I need to wash, eh, Haba?”

“Don’t call me that,” Seregil snapped, more out of habit than any real anger.

“I’m sorry. I’ve always thought of you that way.”

“Well, don’t,” Seregil growled, going back to his washing.

“I wish Alec could forgive me. I really do like him, you know. It wasn’t easy, lying to him like that, but I had no choice.”

“So you keep saying.” Seregil snorted as he washed his face.

A light touch on his shoulder startled him. He slapped Ilar’s hand away and stood up, water running down his chest to soak the front of his trousers. “Damn you! What do you want from me?”

Ilar stepped closer. “Your forgiveness, Seregil. I don’t understand. You saved my life, but you still treat me like a plague rat. Why didn’t you kill me or leave me when you had the chance?”