He gazed down into the garden, docketing again all the possible routes of escape-a tall tree, some stonework that offered good handholds, a climbing rose. From what little he could see over the wall, this was a country house, which presented other problems. A city was an easy place in which to lose oneself; open fields, probably bare this time of year, were the worst possible option.

No use worrying about that before I’m strong enough to do something about it. Feeling more useless than ever, he rested his chin in one hand and watched the sparkle of the fountain. There were some large fish in the basin that he hadn’t noticed before. That was a sure sign of wealth, though he’d already guessed as much.

Doves were drinking and bathing there, too, but scattered as several people walked into view in the covered portico. He expected the children and their nurse, but it was two taller, veiled figures. They passed from view, then reappeared on one of the paths leading to the fountain.

“Alec!” The breath locked in Seregil’s chest as he lurched unsteadily to his feet, clutching at the bars for support. There was no question; even with the veil and shapeless robe, his lover’s build and gait, and that braid hanging down the back of his cloak were unmistakable.

He’s alive! He’s alive and he’s here, in this house!

“Alec!” he shouted.

When Alec gave no sign of hearing, Seregil reached through the bars, pounding at the thick window. It would not give, and even that sound did not seem to reach the men in the garden. That didn’t stop him from shouting himself hoarse. Caught between relief and frustration, he sagged against the bars, tears rolling unnoticed down his cheeks as he drank in the sight of his talí alive and apparently well.

He’s alive! Thank the Light, Alec is alive! The words throbbed in his head in time to his frantic heartbeat. I didn’t get him killed!

He’d paid scant attention to the other man, but he scrutinized him now and saw that he had Alec on a chain like a dog, fastened to some sort of collar around his neck. He silently vowed to cut off the hand of the man who’d put it there.

Though Seregil couldn’t make out their faces, it appeared that they were on friendly terms. That gave Seregil hope. If there was one thing Alec excelled at, it was charming people and disguising his own motives.

The other man wore a golden collar around his neck, just visible under the edge of the veil. He also had the dark hair and build of a ’faie. Well done, talí. Perhaps you’ve found us an ally!

Alec and his companion walked together, arm in arm, while Seregil watched like a drowning man sighting land across the waves.

As they reached the fountain, both of them pulled down their veils. For a moment Seregil only had eyes for Alec; he looked well-better than well, actually. Even through the wavy glass, Alec had never looked more beautiful. It made his heart ache to be this close and yet so hopelessly apart. Just then, however, Alec’s companion looked up in Seregil’s direction and smiled.

Seregil’s elation curdled in his throat. He knew this face, this man. He’d haunted Seregil’s memories all the days of his exile, and his dreams, too, since he’d been here.

Ilar í Sontir. First lover. First betrayer. The man who’d engineered Seregil’s downfall all those years ago.

He slammed his fist against the window again. “You whoreson bastard!”

In the garden below, Ilar took Alec’s arm as if they were the best of friends. Seregil shuddered, feeling like he was caught in a horrible dream when he saw the way Alec smiled at him.

Seregil clutched the bars that kept him from kicking out the window and leaping down to kill Ilar for putting hands on Alec. Just one more reason to kill you, Ilar!

Ilar looked up again, almost as if he’d heard Seregil’s thoughts.

You meant for me to see, didn’t you, you bastard? You had Zoriel put me here, to be certain I’d be watching.

What followed took on the feel of a staged performance, which it probably was. Ilar touched Alec often, and they stood close together, talking like friends as they threw bread to the fish. Alec actually reached out and took Ilar’s arm. Seregil stood there, fingers going numb around the bars, hating Ilar with a passion so strong it made black spots swim in front of his eyes.

He stayed there until Alec and Ilar passed from view again, then sank down in the chair and put his head between his knees, feeling sick.

When the nausea had abated he fell back in the chair, staring out the window at the grey-backed gulls circling above the house. His heart beat so hard it ached.

How can this possibly be?

Where has Ilar been all these years, and what is he doing here?

Think, damn it! I can’t even stay on my feet. What am I going to do?

When his head stopped spinning, he slowly pushed the chair into the corner of the room furthest from the door and huddled there, sweaty and winded, clutching the empty water pitcher in both hands. He felt absolutely ridiculous, but right now he didn’t have much in the way of options.

Zoriel came at the customary time with his midday meal and found him there. “What’s this?”

“I saw your ‘master,’ down there in the garden,” he growled. “Turns out he’s an old friend of mine.”

Zoriel set the tray across his knees. “You’re talking nonsense. Eat your food.”

“Tell him I’d very much like to renew our acquaintance, won’t you?” Seregil called after her as she went out. “Tell him it’s been far too long!”

“Fool!” she threw back as the guard slammed the door.

Seregil smiled crookedly as he ate the bean soup, brown bread, and honeyed milk she’d brought. His circumstances hadn’t changed, but knowing where Alec was, even if it was with Ilar, was the first firm ground he’d had under his feet in weeks.

It had been over half a century since Seregil had met Ilar that summer at the clan gathering by the river.

My last summer there, he thought bitterly. Is that why I dreamed of it again, after all this time? Did I know he was so close?

Thanks to Ilar, he’d killed that Hamani clansman. And, in doing so, betrayed his own father, his clan, and destroyed the fragile negotiations before they could come to fruition.

Ilar was several decades older than the green boy Seregil had been then. He’d been so handsome, so charming, always with time for his young companion. He’d made Seregil feel like he was someone special instead of his father’s great disappointment.

Seregil rested his head in his hands with a soft groan. Ilar hadn’t had much trouble seducing him, and in more ways than one. He secured Seregil’s needy heart first, with caresses, kind words, and false praise, playing the smitten swain when all the time he’d been sounding out the khirnari’s son, finding the best way to ruin him-and through Seregil, his father’s negotiations with the Zengat. Too late, Seregil had realized that this had been his “lover’s” real goal, all along.

Even after all these years, the memories were stained deep with shame. Adzriel had tried to warn him against the older man, and in time even Kheeta had grown concerned about Ilar’s hold over Seregil.

But Seregil hadn’t listened to any of them, and in the end he’d been cheaply bought. Ilar had made a game of giving him little challenges: steal a bit of food from this camp, go to the heart of another and bring back proof he’d come and gone unseen, and the like. Puffed up with his successes and the older man’s approval, he’d willingly gone to the tent of the Haman khirnari, looking for a document that would supposedly aid his father in his negotiations. Little did he guess that as soon as he was safely off on that errand, Ilar had convinced one of the Haman khirnari’s kinsman to go there as well, on some pretext.