Shadows Return n-4

by Lynn Flewelling

  “What’s he so upset about? He’s got his white creature and I’m keeping it fed for him. And those cries?” Alec hugged himself, feeling miserable and helpless. “By the Light, does he make them just to torture them? What is it he wants?”

  Khenir sighed. “He’s pursuing a great secret, Alec. The rhekaro made from Hâzadriëlfaie blood are said to yield the necessary elements for a perfect elixir.”

  “To do what? Heal the Overlord’s child?”

  “Yes. That’s what he told me, at least.”

  Alec narrowed his eyes at the older man. “You think there’s something else it does?”

  “I have no idea, but I do know that he’s made many healing elixirs over the years without going to such lengths.”

  “Say all you want about ‘alchemy’ it all looks like necromancy to me, and it causes suffering.”

  “But for a higher purpose.”

  Alec shook his head and looked away.

  Khenir squeezed his shoulder and gave him a little shake. “I’m sorry about taking your things, but it was to protect you as much as myself. I keep telling you, you haven’t been a slave long enough to understand the danger.”

  “And how would I, shut up in a cell for weeks on end?”

  “I know it’s difficult for you. If only Ilban’s experiments work, things will surely change. In the meantime, I’ll ask if you can go out in the garden with me again.”

  Alec had expected to work harder than this to get another chance at the garden. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  “Then you forgive me?”

  Alec forced a grudging smile. “Forget about it. It doesn’t matter anyway. I guess I’ll have to settle for another walk on my chain, eh?”

  CHAPTER 32 On the Hunt

  MICUM AND THERO found horses saddled for them at the head of the escort waiting by the courtyard gate. There was a stone mounting block near the gateway, and Micum swallowed his pride and used it. Once he was on horseback, he was any man’s equal.

  The khirnari was the next to use the block, climbing stiffly into the saddle of a fine chestnut mare. “I will be your guide.”

  Thero bowed in the saddle and Micum did the same, glad of more time to get to know the man. Seregil had always spoken fondly of him.

  They rode along a coastal road until dusk, and guested at a lonely farmstead. The farmer and his family were clearly honored to have their khirnari under their roof and made their Skalan guests welcome with every comfort they had.

  The following morning they turned up into the wooded hills, following a well-traveled road. Micum kept one eye on the trees, but the khirnari assured him that bandits were rare in these parts. Micum nodded, but kept watch anyway; this was perfect country for an ambush. Wasn’t that why they were here?

  They reached the ravine that afternoon and Riagil led them down to the spot where the bodies had been found. Thero seated himself on a rock by the stream and closed his eyes, intent on seeking any lingering energies that might be here. Micum left him to it and walked slowly up and down the bank of the stream. The soft ground was still marked by footprints, but not from a battle. It looked more like the bodies had simply been dumped here after they were killed.

  “Why would they have turned aside?” wondered Thero. “That water doesn’t look good to drink, except perhaps for the horses.”

  “Why indeed?” Micum dismounted stiffly and walked slowly up and down the side of the ravine. It had been weeks since the attack-weeks of rain and wind, but he could still tell that the attack hadn’t happened here. There was no sign of a fight.

  Leaving his horse with one of the ’faie, he grabbed his stick and worked his way slowly back up to the road, following the faded signs that were left. The Gedre had mucked up much of it when they came for their dead, but he could still make out some drag marks, and the deep impressions left by men carrying a burden.

  The trees were thick on either side of the road and would have provided ample cover for archers. Given the number of arrows found in the bodies, that must have been the main type of attack. Beginning with the ravine side of the road, he limped slowly into the forest, gaze and stick sweeping the ground. Fortunately, there wasn’t much undergrowth, and he soon found numerous groups of small depressions, where the archers had stuck handfuls of arrows into the ground, in easy reach as they shot. The tree cover had protected footprints better in here, and he guessed there had been at least thirty ambushers.

  Going to the far side of the road, he found similar signs and a rusted knife of Skalan make, which he pocketed.

  Chin on chest, he walked the roadside for nearly an hour, searching for old signs along the verge while the others milled about, trying to stay out of his way. He found nothing more on the far side of the road, so he crossed over and tried again on the ravine side.

  He had better luck here. The grass was longer between the road and the trees and looked to have been trampled some time ago. He used the tip of his stick to brush it this way and that, looking for tracks. Instead, the tip struck something that gave back the clink of metal. Feeling around, his hand caught on something sharp enough to cut his fingertip. He drew back, then let out a low whistle of satisfaction. It was the hilt of a sword, and one he recognized by the curled, fern-head ends of the quillons. It was Alec’s, or what was left of it; the blade had been shattered. The remains of it, no more than a few inches long, were razor-sharp and darkened to an unusual blue.

  A few moments more searching uncovered the hilt of Seregil’s sword in the same condition. It was Aurënfaie work, made by Seregil’s uncle to replace the one he’d destroyed killing Nysander. Not only was the blade of this one shattered and dark, like Alec’s, but the smooth round lozenge of Sarikali stone that had formed the pommel was gone, leaving nothing but the empty bezel.

  He crouched for a long time, holding the hilts in his hands; this was where his friends had made their stand.

  “Show me something, boys,” he murmured, smoothing his mustache thoughtfully. Neither would have gone without a fight; the swords were proof of that. And Seregil at least would have tried to leave him some sign. He always had.

  Micum gave the hilts to Thero and continued his search. A few feet from where Seregil’s hilt had fallen, the point of Micum’s stick struck something small and metallic. He went down on both knees and parted the grass. There, half-buried in a small ants’ nest, glinted the ring Klia had given Seregil. He picked it up and polished the red stone on his sleeve, cleaning the dirt from the princess’s portrait. Oh my friend. If you let this fall, it must have been very bad indeed.

  A few yards away, he found a few of the message sticks under a clump of wilted clover. Rain had washed away most of the paint. He wondered if the magic had washed away, too, and why neither of his friends had managed to break any of them.

  Whatever happened here that day, it happened fast, or they’d have gotten away.

  By the time Micum was done, he’d found an untarnished Plenimaran silver coin mashed into the ground inside a footprint from a Skalan boot, very likely Seregil’s from the size. There was also a stained ivory toothpick, and a human front tooth that had been broken off rather than pulled. He carried these to where the others were waiting and lined them all up on the ground beside the hilts.

  Riagil looked rather chagrined as he examined the collection. “My men searched this area for two days.”

  “Micum has sharper eyes than most and more experience with ambushes of this sort, Khirnari.” Thero knelt and passed his hands over the items slowly. “The tooth belongs to a Plenimaran soldier named Notis. He was here for the attack. A Silmai trader dropped the toothpick sometime more recently. He was on his way to Gedre. It has nothing to do with the attack.”

  As his left hand drifted over the sword hilts, however, Thero shivered and picked up Seregil’s. Pressing it between his palms, he closed his eyes, lips moving soundlessly in some spell, as Micum and the others looked on. “Someone set a dra’gorgos on them.”

  The khirnari
’s eyes widened. “On Aurënfaie soil? The audacity!”

  “And where there’s a dra’gorgos, then there’s a necromancer, too,” said Micum.

  Thero repeated the procedure with Alec’s hilt, with the same result.

  “Are they dead?” asked Riagil.

  “I don’t see that. But what this proves is that there were Plenimarans with the Zengat.”

  Micum frowned. “Then I’d say that they were taken east, rather than west. Can you use these to find them?”

  “Perhaps…” Thero examined Seregil’s hiltagain. “If there was a bit of blood, even a drop, I might…” He set Seregil’s hilt aside and picked up Alec’s. After a pained moment, he looked up. “There’s a tiny bit of Alec’s blood here.”

  “You use blood magic?” Riagil asked, surprised.

  “It’s not necromancy, but something my master’s master learned from the hill folk.”

  “The Retha’noi, you mean?”

  “Yes, Khirnari. I believe they are closely related to the Dravnians in your own mountains. Such spells are in my lineage of magic now, though this one is not very powerful. The only thing I use it for is findings.”

  Thero scratched the bit of dried blood from the hilt and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. With head bowed, he whispered the blood calling to blood spell, then waited silently for the images to appear.

  But nothing came to him except a distant blur of light, dancing just out of reach. Alec! Alec, come to me.

  But nothing else did, except that strange blur, and it told him only that Alec was probably alive.

  He broke off in frustration and opened his eyes to find everyone watching him. “I think he’s alive, but I can’t place him, or even see him. Something’s shielding him, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered.”

  “But he is alive?” said Micum.

  “I’m quite sure of it.”

  “Well, what can you make of this, then?” Micum took the hilt from him and pressed the tooth into Thero’s hand. “You can bet this bastard bled. If we can find him, maybe he can tell us where they were taken. Where is he?”

  Chagrined at not having thought of it himself, Thero smiled up at Riagil. “I told you he’s a clever man.”

  He clasped the tooth between his palms and whispered the spell again. This time the images came at once, fast and clear. The man who’d lost the tooth was alive and laughing with some others. By their speech, dark complexions, and beards, he knew them for Plenimarans. Some noble’s own men-at-arms, by the look of them, or brigands. With Plenimarans, it was often difficult to tell the difference.

  “They’re calling him by name…yes, it’s Notis.” Thero strained to see more of the man’s surroundings. The spell was a hard one, and made his head pound as he pushed himself to his limit. Sweat was beaded on his brow and upper lip by the time he opened his eyes. “Virésse! By the Light, the man is in Virésse, in some sort of barracks or on a ship. I can’t tell which, but he’s most certainly there. I recognize the harbor.”

  “What’s a Plenimaran slaver doing there, of all places?” wondered Micum.

  “He may not be a slaver by trade,” Riagil told him. “Not even Ulan í Sathil would stoop so low as to trade in bodies. But this Notis may be in service to one who does, and that man may be a trader in other commodities.”

  “The point is, he’s in Aurënen!” Thero exclaimed. “We have to find him and make him tell us what happened. That’s the only link we have to where they might have been taken.”

  “Khirnari, can any of your people do that traveling spell that brought us here?” asked Micum.

  “No. That, like the blood spell, is no part of Aurënfaie magic. But if we ride hard, we can be back in Gedre soon enough, and there I can put you on my fastest ship. Whatever you need, you have only to ask.”

  Thero stood and bowed to him. “We accept your kind offer, Khirnari, with our deepest thanks. It’s still a great wide world to search in, but this gives me hope.”

  “Thank the Four,” Micum murmured, leaning heavily on his stick. “If they are alive, then I won’t stop until I find them and bring them home!”

  CHAPTER 33 Child of No Woman

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Alec and Khenir were allowed in the garden again, veiled and under guard, as usual. Apart from the ever-present escort, this was the best place for a potential escape, and close to the cell he was in now. He was glad that they hadn’t thought to put him back in the first cell under the main house, at least not yet. All he had to do was get the cell and workshop doors open some night when the workshop was empty, slip out here, and over the wall. Of course, he’d have to find a way to carry the rhekaro when he went…

  That last thought brought him to a sudden halt by the fountain. He kept his gaze on the fish swimming lazily after Khenir’s crumbs, but his mind was racing. There was no telling what the alchemist would do to the pale little creature, now that it, too, was proving unsuitable to his needs.

  Hell, with me gone and no one else’s blood good enough to feed it, it will die anyway. I can’t just leave it-can I?

  His heart already had the answer. It was a child, born of no woman.

  His child.

  So that’s settled. Maybe that will finally make Seregil shut up about me finding a girl, too.

  Khenir looked up and chuckled. “It’s good to see you smile.”

  “I like the fish. Can I have some of that bread to give them?”

  Khenir passed him the crust he’d brought and they sat together on the rim of the fountain, watching as the fish thrust their blunt heads and gaping, whiskered mouths up out of the water to beg like puppies.

  Khenir still had charge of his chain, but Alec had room enough to move away a little, and as he bent to look more closely at a yellow snail crawling along the bottom of the pool, he caught sight of something lying in the shadow under the wide basin.

  It was a child’s bronze hairpin.

  Without any change of expression, he knelt and rested one arm on the edge of the basin, trailing his fingers in the water for the fish to nibble at, while letting the other fall. It only took an instant to palm the pin.

  He had no sleeve or belt to hide it in, so he pinched it in the folds of one curled palm and prayed to Illior he didn’t have cause to use his left hand until his got back to his room.

  Khenir rested a hand casually on Alec’s shoulder. “I’m glad you like the fish so much. You look like a child, kneeling there.”

  Alec grinned up at him. “They’re very pretty. The whole garden is. It’s good to get out of that room. And…” He glanced away shyly. “And to see you, too. There’s no one else I can talk to here. I’ve really come to understand what you said about being lonely. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” Khenir’s hand moved from Alec’s shoulder to his hair, and he combed his fingers through the loose strands around Alec’s face. The tips of his finger were cool and soft as they brushed his cheek, and Alec was once again torn between sympathy and distrust. He turned his face away from that touch.

  “Still pining for that lost love of yours?” Khenir asked sadly.

  “Yes. But it’s good to have you here.”

  Khenir leaned closer and whispered, “Would you really take me with you, if you got out?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “And do you think you could really get away? How would you do that?”

  Alec looked back at the fish. Did he trust Khenir or not? His head told him one thing, but gut instinct made him hold back. It was a bad feeling, especially if he was wrong and Khenir really was his friend.

  Caution won out, all the same. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Get on a ship headed west, I suppose.”

  Khenir laughed outright at that. “That’s your whole plan, is it? Find a ship? Hmm, I think maybe I’ll take my chances and stay here, then. You’ll be chained in the market without a foot before the next full moon.”

  Alec shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

  He kept
the pin hidden in his palm until he was alone in his cell again. He waited until the lock ground into place, then sat down and examined his find.

  It was a child’s hair stick, just less than three inches long, with a carved ivory finial. Illior must have heard me, after all, he thought, for the pin was made of bronze, rather than soft gold or silver. However, his horn splinters had been longer.

  He knew that Khenir’s evaluation of his so-called plan was apt. Even if he did get out of this room, and the villa, he wouldn’t get very far without some way to disguise himself, and the rhekaro, too. He glanced up at the ceiling, wondered if there was any sort of dye in the workshop.

  And, of course, he’d have to find Seregil, too.

  He had little appetite that night but ate his turnip stew and bread anyway to avoid any undue attention. Ahmol took the tray away when he was done and Alec lay down to wait.

  Without a window, it was impossible to gauge the passage of time. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the candle flame in the niche by the door and began counting softly to himself to mark the passing seconds. He recalled Seregil once telling him how long it took a candle to burn an inch but couldn’t remember what the actual time had been. It was boring work, and he lost count several times, dozing off, but when the candle finally burned almost to the socket, he judged that it must be late.

  He went to the door and put his ear against the wood. All was silent beyond. Encouraged, he inserted the pin into the lock and gently caressed the tumblers, seeing what he could reach. The first pin gave easily, but the second was a hairbreadth out of reach.

  “Bilairy’s Balls!” He sat back on his heels and turned the hairpin over between his fingers. It was metal, so there was the chance that he could pound it out a little to make it longer, but with what? He carried it over to the corner with the slop pail. The pail was carved in one piece from a length of log and quite thick at the bottom.