Shadows Return

CHAPTER 35 The Good Slave

ILAR’S VISITS WERE becoming more frequent, and more varied. There were still whippings now and then-sometimes when Seregil let his careful mask slip, sometimes at Ilar’s own strange whim-but only at Ilar’s own hands now, and those Seregil could easily bear.

Ilar came earlier in the day and stayed longer, too. Seregil played his role with increasing ease. As long as he kept Alec in his heart, he could feign obedience to Ilar with ease, pour wine for him without spitting in it when Ilar wasn’t looking, and even manage to converse with the man, listening again and again to Ilar’s version of the days they’d spent together. He learned of the man’s family and, when Ilar had had more wine than usual, his regrets at the shame he’d brought on his kin and clan. Seregil even shared a little of his own past, when pressed, and took a certain degree of dark pleasure in recounting his exploits in Skala, for the pain and envy it kindled in Ilar’s eyes.

As the days passed and they grew more accustomed to each other’s company, Seregil sensed that, despite Ilar’s cool façade, he was increasingly troubled. Seregil guessed it had something to do with the fact that there had been no more mention of Ilar’s freedom. Intrigued, he bided his time and chose his moment carefully.

One evening, when Ilar seemed especially tense, Seregil poured the wine and brought it to him. Standing respectfully beside his chair, he reached out, and then pulled his hand back as if reconsidering the action.

“What is it?” Ilar demanded irritably.

“You seem out of sorts, Master.” Ilar relished hearing that word from his lips, and Seregil used it as often as possible, playing the obedient slave.

“And what if I am?”

Seregil slipped his hand under Ilar’s long hair to stroke the nape of his neck. “Yes, you’re very tense. If I may, Master?”

Ilar glanced up warily. “Stay where I can see you.”

Ilar was no fool, and still had a healthy distrust of Seregil, but it had also become obvious that he was starved for touch in this house. If approached carefully, Ilar was particularly susceptible to the slightest show of kindness. So Seregil chanced it now, kneading the back of Ilar’s smooth neck with expert fingers.

The man was slow to relax. He sat stiffly, still drinking, one eye on Seregil.

“It would be easier if I stood behind the chair, Master,” Seregil suggested, sliding his fingers down the neck of Ilar’s robe to massage between his shoulder blades.

“Easier to what? Throttle me? I prefer you where you are.”

“Then how about this?” Seregil boldly straddled Ilar’s legs, settling on his knees to bring both hands into play. It brought their faces close together and Seregil kept his eyes lowered for a time, then looked up through his lashes. Even a eunuch could be seduced if you knew what he liked; Ilar liked to be touched.

“What is it you want?” Ilar muttered.

“To take that frown from my master’s face.”

“‘Coy’ doesn’t suit you, Haba,” Ilar sneered, but Seregil could already feel the tension easing from the muscles under his fingers.

“What do I want, then?” Seregil worked his fingers up and down the back of Ilar’s neck. “My freedom, certainly. And Alec, of course.”

Ilar chuckled at his honesty. “What else?”

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Master Yhakobin hasn’t released you as he promised.”

“He will.”

“When?”

Ilar locked eyes with him. “What’s that to you?”

“I am yours, Master. My fate lies with yours, hand in glove. I can’t help being curious.”

“Well, if you must know, your half-breed may not be bleeding the right sort of blood.”

Seregil kept up his gentle work as he took this in. He couldn’t ask about the rhekaro without tipping his hand. Fortunately, Ilar was in a talkative mood.

“Mmmmm, yes, Haba. Right there.” He sighed as Seregil began kneading the stiff muscles at the base of his skull. “Since you are so agreeable today, I’ll answer your question. The master seeks to make a particular kind of creature, one that has great power. It can only be made with the blood of an Hâzadriëlfaie.”

A monster made from ’faie blood, just like the dra’gorgos! “That’s why he wanted Alec?”

“Yes. As soon as word came from Aurënen that one had appeared, Master Yhakobin was determined to be the one to capture him.”

“Who sent word?”

“Spies, I suppose. It doesn’t matter.”

It does to me, Seregil thought darkly. Assuming that Ilar was telling the truth, this seemed to point to someone other than Phoria. Seregil was a little disappointed.

“Fortunately, I was able to assist him, since I knew that the young man’s talimenios was you. So when word arrived that you were both returning to Aurënen-Well, you know the rest.”

“Were you there?” Seregil kept his voice calm and his fingers working.

“Of course not! But I knew your name and face, and that was enough for the slavers. You certainly made no secret of your movements.”

“Why didn’t they come after us in Skala?”

“They don’t raid that far north, do they?”

“I suppose not.”

“And Rhíminee is not such an easy place for spies, since Mardus’s failed attack on the city.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So, Alec is well, Master?”

“You’ve seen him.”

“And he doesn’t suspect you being anything other than a fellow slave?”

“Apparently not.”

Seregil very much hoped Ilar was wrong about that.

“Oh, by the way. It seems your blood is as useless as his. Master Yhakobin attempted to use that which he took from you that day. It doesn’t transmute properly at all.”

“Do give him my regrets, won’t you?” Seregil said without thinking.

Strong hands clamped over his wrists, pinning them together in front of his face. “Are you missing the whip, Haba?”

“No, Master! Please, forgive me.”

“Then watch that tongue of yours, or I’ll cut it out. Now prove to me that you are sorry.”

Seregil leaned in to kiss him, only to be shoved off Ilar’s lap. With an inward sigh, he prostrated himself and kissed the toe of his slipper. Ilar pulled his foot away and used it to shove his face into the carpet. “Don’t forget your place, Haba. And don’t forget your bargain.”

“I won’t, Master.” The thick pile of the carpet got into his mouth and he coughed.

Ilar gave him a last light kick in the head and swept out, slamming the door after him.

“Ingrate,” Seregil muttered, wiping his mouth. In spite of the indignity, it had been a good evening’s work. It didn’t sound like Ilar would be leaving the house anytime soon.