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.
CHAPTER 19 An Unexpected Reward
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.
Yhakobin hadn’t bothered with the blood flame spell for several days, and today was no exception. As soon as Alec downed the tincture, the alchemist motioned to the guards and went to the forge.
“Ilban? May I ask a question?” Alec asked quickly as the men closed in on him.
Surprised, Yhakobin turned back to him. “What is it?”
“That slave called Khenir says this is a purification. Please, Ilban, what is it you are purifying out of me?”
“He told you that, did he? Well, no matter.” Yhakobin chuckled as he turned and tossed the used amulet into the forge. “It’s nothing you’ll miss, I assure you. Here, I have a new book for you, a reward for your good behavior.”
Alec accepted the volume with a humble nod, and his guards led him away.
And so the days went: one to himself, and the next back to the workshop. The copper amulet was changed for one of something Yhakobin called sophic mercury, and he was made to drink Tincture of Quicksilver. This one tasted especially foul, and cramped his belly a little, but even so, he found he was feeling remarkably well in spite of his situation and the wretchedly bland food. His mind was wonderfully clear, and he felt stronger, even with the lack of meat.
He’d hoped to see Khenir again, but that day passed as usual, with no sign of him. With nothing else to do, he perused the new book. This one was a history of the coming of the first Hierophant. Plenimar had been his seat of power, according to this writer, and Skala had broken away, waging war unjustly to gain control of all the Three Lands, and the sacred isle of Kouros.
Alec read half of it out of sheer boredom, and then paced his cell restlessly, listening to the mundane noises from outside and wishing desperately he was out there. He’d happily work in the kitchen or split firewood, just for something to do!
The following day was just like the last. He was too restless to read, and instead spent the afternoon pacing and performing some strengthening exercises Seregil had taught him during the long winter months they’d spent in the cabin. He’d need to be fit when it came time to run. Without knowing it, the alchemist was preparing him well for that, he thought with a smile. How pleasant it would be to thank him at the point of a knife.
As he dropped into a crouch, preparing to practice his leaps, the slant of light across the bottom of the door caught his eye. There was something scratched into the wood, visible only from this angle. At first glance it looked like lines of random marks, but on closer inspection, he saw that it was writing and most of it in Aurënfaie. He had to lie on his belly to read it, with his body at a slant so as not to block the light.
The lettering was crude, almost unreadable, and Alec wondered whether the author had lain here, at the end of his strength, and what he had used to write with. He traced the line of scratches with a finger to find the beginning and read: “ Malis, son of Koris.” Just below it, he found another name that made his heart skip a beat: it read simply “Khenir, without hope.” And at the corner of the panel, another: “Ulia, daughter of Ponia, my curse be on…”
This one was unfinished. Were you interrupted, he wondered, or did you just give up?
He searched the bottom of the door and found over a dozen more such inscriptions, some with names, others anonymous expressions of fear, grief, and despair. Several of the curses mentioned Yhakobin by name. In other places, there were tiny crescent moons, Aura’s symbol, incised with a fingernail.
Here are the others, those who came before me, but where are they now? Why are Khenir and the children’s nurse the only ones left?
He found a clear spot and used his thumbnail to inscribe a crescent moon, and his own name: Alec, son of Amasa. He sat back, sucking his sore thumb. It had been an impulse, to add his name, but he suddenly wished he hadn’t. Those listed there, save Khenir, had all disappeared, their fates unknown. Was this his fate, as well?
His dreams were wild that night-all battles and killing and running through dark forests. He even dreamed of escaping and finding Seregil. In the dream, he stole through the house in the dark, checking door after door and finding them locked, until at last one upstairs opened and there was Seregil, waiting for him with open arms and that beloved crooked grin. Alec ran to him, but woke before they could touch. The dream had been so vivid that he lay awake for a long time, heart pounding, sunk in renewed despair. If he disappeared here, like those others, Seregil would never know what happened to him. He’d be nothing more than a name on the door, lost in the shadows of this wretched little room.