Shadows Return

CHAPTER 18 Caged Doubts

FOR THE FIRST few days, Seregil didn’t have the strength to get away even if they’d left the door open for him. Instead, he had to settle for alternating between fretting over what could have become of Alec and making what observations he could make from his bed.

From what little he could recall from the ship, his captors had probably placed some sort of magical ward on him, and apparently he’d had his usual reaction to it. His skin was still sallow and he’d lost a considerable amount of weight. His belly was sunken and his ribs were more prominent than usual. The magic had eaten into his muscles, too, and his arms looked thin. In addition to the brands, he had sores and scabs over a good part of his body. The old woman had been right in thinking he’d nearly died.

He had no way of knowing what the collar around his neck looked like, or was made of, but it was very hard metal. At least it wasn’t magicked. He wouldn’t be feeling as well as he was if it had been.

Despite his dire situation, he was glad to be clean and comfortable. Even his hair and nails had been neatly trimmed. He knew better than to mistake this for kindness on the part of whoever had bought him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it for now. It was certainly better than the condition he’d been in, and it gave him a chance to start recovering his strength.

Judging by the slant of light through the window, and the slice of blue sky he could see, he guessed that his room was on an upper floor. It was a surprisingly fine chamber for a slave. Though sparsely furnished with a bed and a heavy armchair by the hearth, the walls were paneled with polished wood; here and there the patina showed lighter in places where some hanging or furniture had been removed. The stout door was locked from the outside and no one came in except for the old woman. He caught a glimpse of an armed man at the door whenever she entered.

He slept a great deal and thrashed through nightmares of the ambush-dreams in which Alec lay dead on the ground with the others. He woke trembling and sweating, sick with not knowing whether it was a memory or a phantasm created by his fears.

Interspersed with these dark dreams were others, more snippets and flashes of his own past-of Adzriel and events from his childhood, before he’d been banished. Some were clear, others jumbled and confused, with only the impression of gentle hands touching him. At times they were innocent and he thought it must be his sister, but at others those hands roamed over his body, stirring his flesh and making him ache for more. No matter how he tried, he could not see who his dream lover was. He woke from these feeling sick in a different way, and strangely guilty.

The old woman came to him several times each day, bringing him food and helping him bathe. He was kept to milk and bread, and thin broths, but the servings were generous and he ate everything offered, in order to gain his strength back. But it was a frustrating battle and his body was slow to mend.

His nurse was a hard one to draw out. She was kind to him in her way while he was weak, but grew more shy and nervous as he regained his strength. He kept at her not only because she was his only link outside this room but because it distracted him from his fears.

With some charm and persistence, he learned that her name was Zoriel and that she’d been a possession of “the master’s” family for generations, since she was a young girl. She couldn’t even remember the name of her clan. Looking into those faded blue eyes, he saw no spirit there, only long-ingrained resignation and lingering traces of fear. She spoke of the “master” with reverence but refused to tell Seregil anything of him, not even his name.

“I daren’t,” she said, nervously fingering the worn metal band at her throat.

Seregil didn’t press her but instead tried to get a sense of the household and whether there were any other ’faie there.

“A few,” she told him, eyes going vague. “But I’m not to talk to you about that, either. Please, don’t ask any more, young son. It’s not for me to say.”

“Please, just one more question,” Seregil said, taking her hands. Her fingers were bent and chapped by years of hard work. “Is there a young man with long blond hair here? He’d have arrived the same time I did, most likely as a slave. Please, old mother, he’s dear to me, and I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

“I’ve seen no one like that.” She pulled free and began gathering up the day’s soiled linens and empty dishes. “You’re the only new slave I know of, and you’re my only concern. I don’t know what the master will say when I tell him of all your questions! It’s not proper for a slave to act so, and the sooner you know that, the better!”

“I’m a slow learner,” he muttered, feeling tired and sulky.

She shook her head sadly. “Then you’ll find yourself at the wrong end of the whip soon enough.”

“Didn’t you ever try to get away?”

This was met with a look of blank incomprehension. “Get away? Where would I go?”

Seregil positioned himself for a good look out the door as she went out. Yes, the door was most certainly under guard, but only by one man. A few more days, he promised himself, and he would be strong enough to fight his way out.

But after three days, he was only just strong enough to leave his bed for a little while and limp slowly about the room. When Zoriel brought him a soft woolen robe to wear, he noticed that she seemed distracted.

“Is something wrong, old mother?”

“Getting above himself, the scoundrel,” she muttered, then began fussing over him as she helped him over to the chair by the window.

“Who is?”

“That’s no concern of yours,” she snapped, tucking a blanket over him.

Seregil spent the morning there, glad to have something to look at besides these four walls.

As he’d guessed, he was on an upper floor. There were iron bars over the casement on the inside, set in new mortar. The window was thickly leaded and glazed. Peering out through the rippled panes, he could see part of a small garden courtyard with a fountain in the middle and a pillared colonnade. A nobleman with dark hair walked there for a while, and later, a pair of small children appeared with a dark-haired woman with a veil over the lower part of her face. Another slave, no doubt.

“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.