Shadows Return

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.
    He’d seen two sentries so far, and they came and went. No doubt the alchemist had the rest still scouring the countryside for him.
    The night was overcast but the clouds were broken and fast-moving, letting enough starlight through to make out Ilar, still huddled beside the post. If there were guards posted to watch him, Seregil couldn’t see them from this angle.
    Slow and careful, now.
He climbed out onto the walkway roof and set the grille back in place. His bare feet made barely a whisper as he retraced his steps around the small courtyard to the edge of the workshop garden.
    From here he could see the pair of sentries at the arched entrance leading back to the house. Leaving his bundle on the roof, he crept along the wall to a dark corner furthest from Ilar and the guards, dropped silently into an herb bed, and drew Alec’s dagger and his poniard. He had one chance at this, and he meant to make it count.
    The two men were standing