Shadows Return

called Ahmol produced a small pot of salve and rubbed it over the damaged skin.
    Yhakobin seemed satisfied. “There, that should heal well. In you go, now.”
    They shoved Alec into the room and slammed the heavy door behind him. He heard a bar fall into place and shuddered. Shut in, and helpless again.
    “Rest now,” Yhakobin called in to him. “I’ll have food brought down to you.” There was a pause, then he added sternly, “It is customary for a slave to thank his master, Alec.”
    That was too much. “I’m no slave, and you’ll
never
be my master!” Alec yelled, forgetting Seregil’s lessons and the sight of the slave with her tongue cut out as he slammed both fists against the door.
    It opened so fast he would have fallen into the corridor if one of the guards hadn’t caught him and locked an arm around his throat. The collar bit into his neck as he was jerked off his feet and shoved face-first against a rough stone wall. Yhakobin was close behind him now, breath warm on Alec’s cheek as he held up a short, thick riding crop.
    “I will be lenient this time, since you are new and we are not in public.” Stepping back, he struck Alec hard across the back. It hurt like hell, but didn’t break the skin. Nine more blows followed, then Alec was grabbed by the hair and thrown back into the cell. He came down hard on the stone floor, banging his right elbow painfully and scraping the bandaged burn on his arm. The pain drove him back to his feet. He faced the doorway, braced to fight.
    Yhakobin regarded him for a moment, then smiled. “Perhaps it’s a good thing, this strong spirit of yours, though it will not make your life here an easy one.”
    “It’s not my choice to be here,
Ilban,
” Alec snarled, shaking with anger.
    “No, but it is your fate.” With that, the door closed and the bar fell again.
    Alec listened as the footsteps faded away. The stripes on his back stung like fire, but the pain cleared his head. He was acting foolishly, fighting when there was no hope of winning, and antagonizing the man who held his life in his hands. Yhakobin could have just as easily had them tear out his tongue. For some reason he’d refrained, but it would be foolish to push the man.
    The cell was cold and dark. A tiny barred window set high in the wall across from the door let in a little torchlight—just enough to make out that the walls were smoothly plastered and whitewashed, and the floor was paved with bricks set in mortar.
    As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a pallet bed piled with folded quilts over in the far corner. A long robe had been laid out for him, too. He pulled it on, surprised at how soft and clean it was. The wool gave off a faint scent of lavender and cedar, as if it had been stored in a proper clothes chest. The plain quilts smelled like fresh air and sunlight. The pallet, too, was a thick, well-aired feather tick.
    It was a relief to be dressed again. He wrapped himself in one of the quilts and circled the room, looking for anything he could use to his advantage. The walls were solid and gave back the dull report of stonework under his knuckles. The door was hinged on the outside, and there was no lock to pick, even if he’d had something to work with. Stymied for the moment, he sat down on the pallet with his sore back against the cold wall, and pulled more quilts over himself.
    “I’m alive,” he whispered, shivering from the pain now and feeling a little sick. “
He’s
alive, too, and we’re both on dry land again. We
will
find each other.”
    All he had to do was bide his time and keep himself in one piece. Sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself.

CHAPTER 12
    Bargains in Flesh

    CHARIS YHAKOBIN WAS not a man who took any particular pleasure in disciplining his slaves. He usually left that to someone else, but this young Alec was quite a special case, and he’d already decided that no one else was going to lay a hand on him.
    He climbed the stairs to the main level of the villa and crossed the central courtyard to find the Virésse khirnari waiting for him at a small wine table by the fountain pool. Ulan í Sathil was still wrapped in his cloak against the evening chill, with the hood thrown back. His white hair glimmered in the torchlight.
    “You are satisfied with our bargain, Charis?” the khirnari asked in that cold, level voice of his.
    “Most satisfied, though it’s a pity the boy is a half-blood.”
    “But you can still make use of