Ahmol gave him a grudging nod and went out. Hadn’t Khenir told him that there were no other ’faie slaves in the house?

He sat staring at the door, heart beating loud in his ears. There was no reason to think it was Seregil, but he couldn’t quash the sudden rush of hope that it might be. Perhaps the alchemist had purchased both of them that night. Maybe Seregil had even been in the same slave barn, and Alec hadn’t seen him. To have been that close!

And if it was Seregil, and if he had gotten out, then he was out there somewhere, looking for a way to get Alec out, too.

But only if he knows I’m here.

He decided not to think about that right now. No matter what, it was time to get out. He reached under the bed and felt for his pick. It was still there.

Alec paced and fretted, wishing he had a window to tell the time by. He slept and woke and paced some more, empty belly reminding him that no one had appeared with a meal for too long. He was still at it when the door swung open and two of Yhakobin’s warders stormed in and dragged him upstairs to the workshop garden. It was late afternoon, or at least he thought so. Black clouds hid the sun, heavy with the promise of rain.

A dozen or more household servants were there, along with a great number of armed men. Alec recognized several as those who had dragged him back and forth from his cellar prison. They all stood around a stout post that had been set into the ground. Beside it, on a litter, lay the nursemaid, Rhania. A cloth had been bound across her eyes and another under her jaw; she was dead. Flies buzzed around the blood staining the front of her rain-soaked gown.

If it was Seregil who’d escaped, why would he kill another ’faie?

Yhakobin stood by the post, holding his crop in one hand. Alec began to tremble, wondering what in Bilairy’s name he’d done to deserve this?

But it soon became apparent that this wasn’t about him. More men emerged from the workshop, dragging Khenir between them. The fine golden collar was gone, replaced by one of cruder iron. Alec was shocked at his appearance. The normally reserved man was screaming and struggling, hair wild about his face as if he’d been tearing at it. And he was naked.

Worse, the scars of Khenir’s gelding and terrible whippings were revealed for all to see.

Alec watched, grief-stricken, as the struggling man was dragged to the post and chained by his collar to it.

“Ilban?” Alec gasped faintly.

“Watch well, Alec.” Yhakobin flexed the crop between his hands. “This wretch Khenir, whom I loved and trusted above all others, has brought shame on my house, and death. He begged a slave of me and promised to tame him, then allowed him to escape and kill poor Rhania.” He looked down at the dead woman and shook his head. “Such a waste!”

Khenir had a slave? One who needed taming? Is that what Ahmol had been trying to say? But how could a slave own another slave?

Yhakobin brought the crop down on the cowering man’s bare shoulders and back. “You are cast out of my household!”

The alchemist continued to vent his rage on the huddled, screaming man. Watching helplessly, Alec forgot all his suspicions and questions for the moment; Khenir had befriended him, comforted him. And Alec couldn’t save him.

Yhakobin whipped Khenir until he was out of breath, then threw the crop aside. “I should have you skinned alive for this, but in light of your past good services, I am sparing your life. You’ll be flogged, and tomorrow you’ll be taken to the markets and sold, with your sins known.”

“Please, Ilban, no! Kill me if you will, merciful Ilban, but not the markets, I beg you!” Khenir wailed.

When Yhakobin turned his face away, Khenir grew more frantic. “The door was locked! I know it was locked! It had to be locked. The key. I have it. Please, Ilban, let me show you!”

“Silence! He was your responsibility and you failed. You know the laws, Khenir. Your shame falls on me.”

Men tied Khenir’s hands and hung him from a large peg set high on the post. Another unlimbered a short, thick drayman’s whip and took his place.

“Thirty lashes,” Yhakobin ordered. “Don’t cripple him. I want him fit for the block.”

Alec closed his eyes, but there was no escaping the screams that followed.

Seregil lay with his face pressed to the wooden screen, and was surprised at how little pleasure he took in the sight of Ilar being brought low. How many times had Ilar endured the whip, he wondered, thinking of all the scars on the man’s body. And who knew what sort of person would buy such damaged goods?

He was so beautiful once…

No! This is my doing, my revenge. I should be glad! But his heart wasn’t in it.

When the whipping was over, and Ilar had subsided to ragged moans, someone came forward and threw handfuls of something onto his back. Judging by the renewed screams, Seregil guessed it was salt. Alec was still being held at the front of the crowd, and even in this light, Seregil could see his lover’s anguish.

The master gave another order and Ilar was cut down, still chained by his collar to the post. They left him there, broken and alone.

Something tickled Seregil’s cheek and he brushed at it, expecting to feel another spider, but it wasn’t.

He wiped his face angrily. Why should I waste any tears on that bastard?

But he couldn’t seem to look away from the broken wreck of his enemy, or block out the pathetic sobbing.

CHAPTER 38 Lovers and Lying Bastards

ALEC SAT ON his bed, watching the candle burn down, glad to be shut down here, away from masters and whips and the sight of Khenir hanging on that post. He couldn’t get the man’s cries out of his head, or the sight of his scars. But mixed with that was the memory of that day in the garden, and Khenir’s faltering attempts to woo him. Or seduce him. Had Seregil been in one of those upper rooms? Was he the shadowy figure at the window Alec sometimes caught sight of?

Oh, talí, what did you think?

Khenir lied to me.

“Alec, I was half-dead when Ilban brought me to this house…I pledged my life to him. I’ve kept that pledge…” He’d been telling Alec the truth then.

And he’d admitted to taking the first pick Alec had made.

But he didn’t tell Yhakobin about that. It could have been me on that post, and Khenir certainly would have been rewarded if he’d told.

He didn’t know what to believe at this point, only what he wanted to be true.

He rested his face in his hands, trying to calm his racing thoughts and pounding heart.

Breathe, Alec. Just focus on your breath, Seregil whispered to him from long ago.

In.

Out.

Slow.

Deep.

He continued like that for a long time, until grief, doubt, confusion-all of it-receded, leaving in their place that same calm silence he felt right before he released his bowstring and let an arrow fly.

He reached under the bed, reassuring himself again that the bronze pin was still there, and settled back to watch the candle’s progress.

By midnight, the house below had fallen silent. Seregil felt around in the dark, making sure he had everything he needed. The clothes he’d altered fit well enough and despite the musty odor that clung to them, he felt more himself than he had in weeks, free at last of his slave’s garb. He had a suit of clothes ready for Alec, too, rolled tightly around a pair of boots he hoped would fit.

The poniard, dagger, and lathing hatchet were tucked securely into the belt Rhania had given him. The bits of jewelry, his boots, and Alec’s clothing were tied in the cloak and slung over one shoulder, and with them the severed braid of his long hair. He regretted having to cut it, but that, as much as his face, would have been a flag to any slave takers. What remained hung in ragged hanks around his face. Between that, his patched-up, faded, ill-fitting clothing, and a day’s worth of dust on his face and hands, he cut a rather fine figure as a beggar. He tied a stained kerchief around his neck and went to the window to see if the coast was still clear.