Shadows Return

don’t know what the master will say when I tell him of all your questions! It’s not proper for a slave to act so, and the sooner you know that, the better!”
    “I’m a slow learner,” he muttered, feeling tired and sulky.
    She shook her head sadly. “Then you’ll find yourself at the wrong end of the whip soon enough.”
    “Didn’t you ever try to get away?”
    This was met with a look of blank incomprehension. “Get away? Where would I go?”
    Seregil positioned himself for a good look out the door as she went out. Yes, the door was most certainly under guard, but only by one man. A few more days, he promised himself, and he would be strong enough to fight his way out.
             
    But after three days, he was only just strong enough to leave his bed for a little while and limp slowly about the room. When Zoriel brought him a soft woolen robe to wear, he noticed that she seemed distracted.
    “Is something wrong, old mother?”
    “Getting above himself, the scoundrel,” she muttered, then began fussing over him as she helped him over to the chair by the window.
    “Who is?”
    “That’s no concern of yours,” she snapped, tucking a blanket over him.
    Seregil spent the morning there, glad to have something to look at besides these four walls.
    As he’d guessed, he was on an upper floor. There were iron bars over the casement on the inside, set in new mortar. The window was thickly leaded and glazed. Peering out through the rippled panes, he could see part of a small garden courtyard with a fountain in the middle and a pillared colonnade. A nobleman with dark hair walked there for a while, and later, a pair of small children appeared with a dark-haired woman with a veil over the lower part of her face. Another slave, no doubt.
    “You don’t want to tire yourself out, your first day up,” Zoriel scolded when she returned with his midday meal. “Back to bed with you now!”
    Seregil wasn’t about to argue. He’d used up what strength he possessed just sitting up. His legs were dangerously wobbly as he crossed the short distance to the bed. He played up the weakness for her benefit, and even went so far as to beg her to feed him his soup. She clucked her tongue at him, but his request must have pleased her, for her old eyes were kind as she spooned it into him. She was less fearful when he seemed weak, he guessed.
    Seeking to capitalize on her good mood, he finished off the soup and bread, then asked, “You’ve never told me the master’s name. Why is that?”
    He caught a flash of the distaste he’d noted that morning as she sniffed and replied, “I haven’t been told to tell you.” She dabbed a bit of broth from his cheek with a napkin.
    “Well, I wish I knew whom to thank.” He sighed happily, folding his arms behind his head. “I knew worse accommodations when I was free. Does the master treat all his slaves like this?”
    “No,” she told him curtly, and that curtain of fear came down between them again.
    Trying a different tack, he gave her a sad look. “I’m not asking you to disobey any orders, but it eats at me day and night, wondering what my fate’s to be.” He dropped his gaze and let his voice falter a little as he plucked at the metal collar. “I’m scared, old mother, if truth be told. And all this, it just makes me more fearful. Why would he be treating me so well, unless he meant me for—” He managed a convincing grimace. “For his bed. Is he like that?”
    “Him?” She scowled and shook her head. “That wouldn’t be for me to say, even if I knew. Here, finish your own bread and leave the tray on the floor. I’ve tasks waiting.” She went to the door, but paused before knocking for the guard. “Savor your leisure while you can, young son. You’ll soon learn that, in our way of life.”
    Seregil mulled over her words as he finished the last of the bread. At best, this nameless master of hers must be strict in his ways; at the worst? That remained to be seen.
    He tried to rest, but his thoughts turned to Alec and set his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. He got out of bed again and made his way slowly back to the window. Sweating and winded, he collapsed into the chair and rested his arms on the sill.
    It appeared to be a formal courtyard. There were no stables or workshops, just neatly planted beds laid out between paths made of something very white—stones or shells, probably—around the fountain. He couldn’t see a gate from this