Shadows Return

hadn’t seen Micum’s wound since it had healed, but he could easily trace the long, uneven ridges of scar tissue through the thin leather of Micum’s breeches. They ran from behind his knee to just below his buttock. Closing his eyes, Thero whispered the healing charm Magyana had taught him to take away pain. The tense muscles under his hands relaxed a bit and he heard Micum’s grateful sigh.
    “That’s a bit better.”
    “Wait a little.” This time, Thero summoned the deeper healing Seregil’s sister had taught him—one he’d used often to help Klia through the long, painful days of healing, when her remaining fingers threatened to curl permanently into withered claws. As the spell took hold, he could feel the rush of blood through muscle and the tension of tendon along bone. He imagined warm sunlight and sent the heat of it deep into the flesh.
    “By the Light!” Micum murmured.
    Thero held on until he felt the thick, hardened skin loosen under his fingers, then sat back and opened his eyes. “I can do more later. Do you think you can ride some more?”
    Micum stood and tried the leg. “Hell, I think I can run! Now, is our friend Notis still there?”
    Thero took the tooth from a pouch at his belt and pressed it between his palms. “Yes, and he’s ashore, too. I think I can find him now that we’re closer.”
             
    They reached the outskirts of Virésse that afternoon. The sprawling white city embraced a deep, broad port, and was protected at its back by mountains. Pausing on a hill overlooking the harbor, Micum sat on a stone fai’thast marker and counted well over a hundred ships of all sizes moored there, and not a few of them carrying the striped sails of Plenimar.
    “It’s no secret that the eastern clans trade with them,” Thero observed. “Still, it’s a bit daunting, seeing so many of them here.”
    “I see a good many Skalan vessels there, too. We should be able to pass unnoticed if we don’t call attention to ourselves.”
    Thero took out the tooth again and cast the seeking spell and a wizard’s eye at the same time. The result was a quick, dizzying mental flight to a tavern inn at the waterfront. The signboard in front bore no words, but showed a dragon wrestling with a sea serpent.
    “That shouldn’t be too hard to spot,” said Micum, rubbing absently at his game leg. “Let’s hope their food and ale are good. How’s your Plenimaran, by the way?”
    “I can make myself understood, though I’m sure to be known for a Skalan as soon as I open my mouth.”
    Micum nodded. “I’ve still got my northland accent. Better let me do most of the talking until we get our man cornered. It’ll draw less attention.”

CHAPTER 35
    The Good Slave

    ILAR’S VISITS WERE becoming more frequent, and more varied. There were still whippings now and then—sometimes when Seregil let his careful mask slip, sometimes at Ilar’s own strange whim—but only at Ilar’s own hands now, and those Seregil could easily bear.
    Ilar came earlier in the day and stayed longer, too. Seregil played his role with increasing ease. As long as he kept Alec in his heart, he could feign obedience to Ilar with ease, pour wine for him without spitting in it when Ilar wasn’t looking, and even manage to converse with the man, listening again and again to Ilar’s version of the days they’d spent together. He learned of the man’s family and, when Ilar had had more wine than usual, his regrets at the shame he’d brought on his kin and clan. Seregil even shared a little of his own past, when pressed, and took a certain degree of dark pleasure in recounting his exploits in Skala, for the pain and envy it kindled in Ilar’s eyes.
    As the days passed and they grew more accustomed to each other’s company, Seregil sensed that, despite Ilar’s cool façade, he was increasingly troubled. Seregil guessed it had something to do with the fact that there had been no more mention of Ilar’s freedom. Intrigued, he bided his time and chose his moment carefully.
    One evening, when Ilar seemed especially tense, Seregil poured the wine and brought it to him. Standing respectfully beside his chair, he reached out, and then pulled his hand back as if reconsidering the action.
    “What is it?” Ilar demanded irritably.
    “You seem out of sorts, Master.” Ilar relished hearing that word from his lips, and Seregil used it as often as possible, playing the obedient slave.
    “And what if I am?”
    Seregil