Nothing wasted.

He couldn’t even enjoy the memory of the dream, knowing those bastards had been watching. That thought was too much for him. Throwing back the quilts, he barely made it to the bucket in time.

Alec sat awake the rest of the night, waiting for the nauseous effects of the drug to wear off. The night passed slowly, and he watched the tiny window brighten from black to blue to pink, then to yellow as the sun came over the courtyard wall outside. It was easier to think now that he could see, easier to marshal his careening thoughts away from the shame of the night. One thing he was quite certain of: Yhakobin was mad. It was disconcerting to think that about someone who seemed so rational, but what other explanation could there be for a man who kept the tears and blood and spendings of another?

Ahmol brought his breakfast at the usual time the following morning, and Alec left it untouched. When the guards came to collect him, he did his best to ignore their knowing smirks.

“I trust you slept well?” Yhakobin said, pouring Alec a cup of tea.

Alec gave him a sullen shrug, waiting until Yhakobin poured himself a cup and had taken several sips before he dared taste his own. It was the same good, strong Aurënen brew as before; it cut the bad taste in his mouth and soothed his aching stomach.

“You’re angry with me, I think.”

Aware of the whip lying ready on a nearby table, Alec kept his gaze on his tea. “No, Ilban.”

“Indeed. But perhaps a little shocked, yes? I don’t blame you, but it was the only way. It’s not as if you’d have given up such vital fluids willingly. Really, now, it did you no harm, except perhaps to your pride. You shouldn’t even have awakened.”

Alec’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Why do such a thing, Ilban?”

“Each of the body’s vital essences contain valuable elements, no different than metals and minerals, and each has its use.”

Alec’s eyes widened. “You mean, you make something from…from that?”

Yhakobin smiled. “Oh yes, something very precious. I’m almost ready to begin. But not quite yet.” He rose and took a flask down from the tincture shelf. “We come to the final draught, at last. Come here. We must change the amulet.”

Alec shuddered at the touch of the man’s cold fingers as Yhakobin removed the silver amulet. He tossed it into the forge, as always, then held up a heavy lozenge of gold for Alec to see. It had more symbols on it than the others.

“You are most favored, Alec. I told you that rich men would pay dearly for the Tincture of Lead; they would give more than money for this Tincture of Gold, the highest of the natural elements.” He fixed the pendant in place and patted Alec’s cheek.

It was only with an effort that Alec kept himself from knocking that hand away.

Yhakobin saw and cast a meaningful glance in the direction of the whip. “This is a very special day for you. Don’t spoil the moment with one of your pointless tantrums.”

Alec hastily dropped his gaze again, tensing. Something was going to happen now. He needed his wits about him to take advantage of any opening.

He swallowed the tincture without a fight. It tasted like pure spring water, and had no immediate effect.

“What are you going to use me for, Ilban?” he asked, weary, scared, and pleading. It was only halfway an act.

Yhakobin just patted his shoulder. “You will see soon enough. And don’t worry. It’s not your life I need. Sleep well, with my promise that no more indignities will be visited upon you.”

Alec held his tongue. Yhakobin’s promises didn’t count for much.

CHAPTER 21 Distractions

THERO PUSHED THE ornate scroll aside and rubbed his eyes. It had been a parting gift from Seregil’s sister Adzriel. It was an exciting project, to be sure, but he’d just realized that he’d already translated the same passage at least three times and he still didn’t know what it said.

The afternoon had slipped by and the workroom was in shadow except for the light of the lamp at his elbow. Thero absently snapped his fingers, lighting others around the room. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his stiff neck until he was staring up through the leaded glass dome above the workroom, where the last orange and gold of the sunset still lingered.

There were magical emblems worked into the patterns of the glass up there. Ever since he came to this tower as a boy, he’d tried to discover exactly how many there were. After all these years, he still came up with a different count each time, depending on which way the sunlight or moonlight struck the tower. Nysander had never solved the puzzle, either-though he was of the opinion that his old master, Arkoniel, had intentionally magicked the glazing to confound and amuse his successors. He’d created the mural in the sitting room, too.

For the past several days Thero hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything as well as he’d have liked. It was Seregil’s fault, of course. The fool had probably forgotten to break the second message stick. He and Alec were no doubt soaking in some luxurious Bôkthersan bathhouse right now, or hunting with Klia in the fragrant pine forests.

“You’re allowing yourself to fall back into bad habits,” he muttered aloud, but in his mind he heard Nysander’s gentle chastisements. He’d wasted years being jealous of Seregil-of his freedom and irreverence and the deep bond he shared with the old wizard. Alec’s arrival had softened the rivalry a little, and Nysander’s death had ended it, but old habits were hard to break.

The truth was he was jealous of both of them right now, being in Bôkthersa with Klia.

Thero and the princess had become good friends in their shared exile, and what Alec had begun for him, Klia and the Bôkthersan people had completed. Thero had found a way out of his emotional exile-given up being a “cold fish,” as Seregil loved to put it-and learned to find pleasure in simple daily interactions with ordinary people. Especially with Klia, though she was far from ordinary.

He sighed, thinking of her: her good nature; the intelligence that shone in those eyes; the way her hair swung in a heavy braid against her back at sword practice with Beka or while riding.

He sighed again, then caught himself at it. He had no illusions about his standing with her, of course. She’d never consider him more than a friend and ally. What would an eagle want with a crow like me?

But he was also a man who’d discovered he had a heart, and wished he hadn’t. It sometimes distracted him from more important considerations, like why Phoria had suddenly recalled her sister’s loyal bodyguard. For over a year Urghazi Turma had languished in Aurënen, apparently forgotten. Then, out of the blue, came a new guard, all strangers, and orders to stand down and sail home. Beka Cavish and her riders had threatened mutiny, and had been roundly chastised by Klia for it. Every last one of them had wept openly as they rode away, men and women alike.

As Thero and Klia had grown closer, she’d finally admitted that she believed her days might be numbered. Queen Phoria had never been close to her youngest half sister, and Klia’s great popularity-both with the army and with the people-could be construed as a threat. But Thero knew Klia would never betray the throne. She was too honorable for that. Unfortunately, she was also too honorable to disappear when she had the chance. She would obey her sister’s summons and accept the consequences, whatever they turned out to be.

The day they’d parted, Klia had set his heart reeling when she’d kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Good-bye, my good friend. If we don’t meet again, know what you have meant to me.”

He’d ridden away that day with tears burning his eyes and his heart scorched with a love that could not be.