Shadows Return

food.”
    “Tell him I’d very much like to renew our acquaintance, won’t you?” Seregil called after her as she went out. “Tell him it’s been far too long!”
    “Fool!” she threw back as the guard slammed the door.
    Seregil smiled crookedly as he ate the bean soup, brown bread, and honeyed milk she’d brought. His circumstances hadn’t changed, but knowing where Alec was, even if it was with Ilar, was the first firm ground he’d had under his feet in weeks.
    It had been over half a century since Seregil had met Ilar that summer at the clan gathering by the river.
    My last summer there,
he thought bitterly.
Is that why I dreamed of it again, after all this time? Did I know he was so close?
    Thanks to Ilar, he’d killed that Hamani clansman. And, in doing so, betrayed his own father, his clan, and destroyed the fragile negotiations before they could come to fruition.
    Ilar was several decades older than the green boy Seregil had been then. He’d been so handsome, so charming, always with time for his young companion. He’d made Seregil feel like he was someone special instead of his father’s great disappointment.
    Seregil rested his head in his hands with a soft groan. Ilar hadn’t had much trouble seducing him, and in more ways than one. He secured Seregil’s needy heart first, with caresses, kind words, and false praise, playing the smitten swain when all the time he’d been sounding out the khirnari’s son, finding the best way to ruin him—and through Seregil, his father’s negotiations with the Zengat. Too late, Seregil had realized that this had been his “lover’s” real goal, all along.
    Even after all these years, the memories were stained deep with shame. Adzriel had tried to warn him against the older man, and in time even Kheeta had grown concerned about Ilar’s hold over Seregil.
    But Seregil hadn’t listened to any of them, and in the end he’d been cheaply bought. Ilar had made a game of giving him little challenges: steal a bit of food from this camp, go to the heart of another and bring back proof he’d come and gone unseen, and the like. Puffed up with his successes and the older man’s approval, he’d willingly gone to the tent of the Haman khirnari, looking for a document that would supposedly aid his father in his negotiations. Little did he guess that as soon as he was safely off on that errand, Ilar had convinced one of the Haman khirnari’s kinsman to go there as well, on some pretext.
    It had been dark, and the man had surprised Seregil. They both drew weapons, but Seregil was quicker with his knife, striking out of fear and panic before he could weigh the consequences. Seregil hadn’t meant to kill him. The act had sickened him to the heart and he’d made no effort to get away.
    Ilar and those who’d been his fellow conspirators were long gone by the time Seregil appeared in the council tent, shattered and in tears, with the first blood he’d ever shed still warm on his hands and white tunic.
    Ilar was never seen in Aurënen again…
    Seregil didn’t realize he’d been poisoned until the half-empty soup bowl slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor in front of him.
    “No!” he whispered, as the room began to spin. Why would Ilar kill him now, after going to all this trouble?
    But he didn’t die, or even lose consciousness. His body simply went to sleep, leaving his mind awake and frantic.
    Time passed and he sat frozen, slumped in his chair, mind racing. At last he heard the grate of a key in the door. He wasn’t at all surprised when Ilar stepped in and closed the door behind him. The veil was gone.
    “Ilar í Sontir,” Seregil rasped, forcing the words out.
    “Haba. I do hope you enjoyed your meal.” And he gave Seregil that warm, false smile he remembered so well as he crossed the room and bent over Seregil. He slipped a finger under Seregil’s collar and gave it a little tug. “This suits you. And I’m known as Khenir now, but you can use my old name if you wish. It doesn’t mean anything here.”
    He picked Seregil up in his arms as if he weighed nothing and laid him on the bed. He placed the pillow behind Seregil’s head, pulled his robe down over his knees, and smoothed a stray lock of hair away from his face, mocking him with seeming tenderness, all the while with that unsettling look in his eyes. When he had Seregil arranged to his liking, he pulled the chair over and sat down beside him.
    “I trust you’re comfortable,