Seregil could not fight back when the men turned him over, and his screams were weak and hoarse as Ilar beat the soles of his feet with the crop. It went on for some time, until the pain cut through the effect of the drug and he finally managed to struggle a little, trying to escape the torture.

Ilar relented and tossed the crop to one of his men. “That’s enough to start. Know, my dear Seregil, that I’ve endured far worse. And so shall you, before I’m done.”

Seregil was feeling remarkably clearheaded now, and full of the strange elation that comes when pain ceases. “You want fear from me, or sympathy?” he slurred thickly. “Go fuck a dog.”

Ilar kicked him onto his back and rested a slipper-clad foot heavily on Seregil’s chest, making it hard to breathe. “Fucking is something else they took from me, Haba, long before I came to this house. Will your friend still want you when you’ve been gelded, I wonder? What will you have to offer him then?”

With that he swept out of the cell, leaving Seregil to curl up in a ball in the darkness, hands clenched protectively between his thighs.

Gelded? Panic cut through the pain and lingering effects of the drugging, and an hysterical little laugh escaped his lips. Poor bastard. No wonder you’re so bitter. Slavery was bad enough, and the abuse, but to have your manhood taken, too? And now he’s planning the same for me. He knew it was no idle threat.

He was cold, and still too numb to get himself under the covers. His feet burned and felt like they might be bleeding. With a little flailing and grabbing, he managed to pull a corner of the quilt over his chest and looked for comfort in Alec’s fading scent on the fabric. What would you do, talí, if they did do that to me? The thought was sickening, but even so, he knew in his heart that Alec would never turn his back on him, any more than he would if Alec had suffered the same plight. Not that it made the thought of having his own favorite parts cut off any less horrifying.

But even that fear paled in comparison to the sight of Alec hanging in that cellar. Regardless of the alchemist’s reassurances, it looked like they were slowly bleeding him to death.

Sleep wouldn’t come, and so he had no defense from his own wandering thoughts.

If it weren’t for you, Haba, I’d never have known he existed.

Remorse overwhelmed him again, closing a fist around his heart. It was true. He’d put Alec on the road to that cage the night he’d found him in that northern dungeon. Seregil had always claimed not to believe in fate, but now he wasn’t so certain. And if that had been fate, then what of the rest of his life?

Ilar said I wasn’t meant to kill that Hamani. And if I hadn’t? He lay there a long time, cold and sad and aching, pondering the question in a way he hadn’t before. The Haman had drawn steel first. If he’d only shouted, or grabbed for him, would the boy Seregil had been then still have drawn a weapon? Ilar called him a monster, blaming Seregil for all that had happened to him since, whatever that had been.

Just like I do him.

He quickly quashed that thought. They were nothing alike!

It’s not my fault! If he hadn’t seduced me in the first place-

Then what? he wondered for the first time. Would he ever have known Nysander, or Micum? Or Alec? He thought of all that had befallen his friends, for having known him. The chains of fate, or plain ill luck, hung heavy on him.

They’d all have been better off without me. The thought slipped insidiously across his mind before he could crush it.

“Stop your damn whining!” he muttered angrily. There was only one thing he could afford to dwell on right now, and that was how to get out of this cell and get Alec away from that madman.

And kill Ilar, he amended with a dark, crooked grin. I’ll show him what a monster really is!

“ALEC? ALEC, OPEN your eyes.”

Khenir?

Awareness returned slowly. Gradually, and in no particular order, Alec realized that he was no longer hanging facedown, that the center of his chest hurt like a bitch, that he was warm, and that he was very hungry and thirsty.

The sour, earthy smell was still all around him, but so was the unexpected aroma of cooked meat. He forced his eyes open and found that he was wrapped in warm blankets and propped in a corner of the cellar. Khenir knelt beside him, holding a mug to Alec’s lips.

Alec drank, and nearly wept with relief as the rich salty taste of mutton broth flooded his mouth. He gulped frantically, dribbling down his chin, until Khenir pulled the cup away.

“Slowly now. There’s no need to make a mess.”

“More!” Alec rasped, and was amazed at the effort it took to speak.

Khenir let him drink again, and the warmth spread through Alec’s belly and limbs. He slipped a hand under the blanket to where his chest hurt and found a small scab there, between two of his ribs, right next to his breastbone.

Memory flooded back-Yhakobin approaching with the golden tap and the hammer. Alec clenched a hand in the blankets, shuddering, but grateful to be lying here now, even in this cellar. Anything was better than hanging in that cage.

“How long?”

“Four days,” Khenir replied. “Ilban is very pleased with you.”

“Indeed I am,” Yhakobin said, coming down the stairs with a larger lamp. Duke Theris was with him. Ahmol and one of Alec’s warders followed, carrying small spades.

As they approached, the light spread, and Alec saw that where Yhakobin had buried the foul bag, the earth was now mounded and moving.

“What is that?” he whispered.

“Let’s see, shall we?” Yhakobin replied.

The two servants removed the top layer of soil, then stepped back. The alchemist knelt by the heaving pile and gently began brushing the loose soil aside to reveal the strange, elastic mass beneath. The duke looked on from a slight distance, covering his nose in distaste.

The sheep’s stomach was swollen, and darkly mottled with decay. Ahmol assisted his master and as they uncovered more of it, Alec could see strange protrusions under the flesh-odd, moving lumps and bumps.

Yhakobin gripped the covering and tore it open, releasing a horrid stench. Alec gagged, and Khenir and the duke buried their noses in their sleeves, eyes watering.

A small, grime-smeared hand thrust up through the opening and clutched at Yhakobin’s wrist. It was perfectly formed, even to the fingernails, but glowed an unnatural fish-belly white under a glistening layer of filth.

Yhakobin said something softly in his own language, and reached deeper into the foul sack to lift out…A child.

“Maker’s mercy!” Alec made a warding sign under the blanket.

It was curled tightly in upon itself. He could see nothing from his place in the corner but the curve of a thin back, and a sodden mass of white hair.

Yhakobin cradled it in the crook of one arm and turned to show the duke its face. It was almost like a real child, but softer, as if it wasn’t fully formed yet. The cat-slanted eyes were tightly closed, and both arms were wrapped across its chest. The alchemist slipped a finger into its mouth and scooped out some sort of clear slime, then turned it this way and that, frowning a bit.

“What’s wrong, Ilban?” Khenir asked.

“The oldest treatises described wings, but this has none. Oh well, it’s alive, and appears suitable otherwise. Now you must play your part again, Alec. Bring him closer.”

Alec shrank back in his corner, too weak to fight. Khenir got an arm around his shoulders and whispered close to his ear, “Do as Ilban says, please!”

“N- no!” Alec gasped. “Don’t! Why are you helping him?”