Shadows Return

startling in its ferocity, and the strength in those pale little hands. He could feel the sharp edges of new teeth breaking through its pale gums. Shock quickly gave way to fascination. Though nearly as big as Illia, and better formed than its predecessor, it seemed more like an infant in its actions.
    “Does it speak, Ilban?”
    “Speak? Of course not! Why would it speak?”
    Rebuffed, Alec kept his questions to himself and concentrated on the rhekaro. Its hand was cold against Alec’s, but he could feel muscle and bone in all the proper places. Apart from the lack of genitals or a navel, and its distinctive complexion, it seemed human enough. It looked up at him just then, and he could have sworn it smiled. The colorless lips, still sucking, flexed a little and its weird silvery eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. Only then did Alec realize that he had been smiling at it.
    He was relieved to see that this one appeared to be unharmed so far, except for some reddened spots on its fingertips.
    “You use its blood, too, Ilban?”
    “What runs in the veins of this rhekaro is your blood, but in a more highly purified form.”
    Hâzadriëlfaie blood,
Alec thought.
    “This creature’s body is at once the vessel and the athanor which refines it,” Yhakobin went on.
    “What do you want it for, Ilban?” he asked before he could stop himself.
    But the man’s patience was at an end. “That’s enough, Alec. It does not concern you.”
    Alec went back to his cell in a daze, the taste of the pastries still filling his mouth. The rhekaro, whatever it was, needed him to live, which ensured a very narrow scope for Alec’s life if he didn’t find some way to get out.
    And if I do escape, it will starve and die.
It surprised him, how much the thought of that bothered him.
    And then there was the matter of the missing picks. Was it possible that it hadn’t been Khenir who’d taken them? And if not, then who had them, and why?

CHAPTER 28
    Seregil Follows His Own Advice

    ILAR SEEMED PREPARED to take Seregil at his word regarding his pledge. The beatings ceased, and for several days Seregil was left to himself, except for Zoriel’s brief visits to see to his care. He had a few books now, and sat by the window much of each day, reading and watching for any sign of Alec. But the garden remained empty, save for when the household children came to feed the fish.
    Just when he thought he’d go mad, Ilar came one evening to visit him. He was dressed in a finer robe than usual and carried a jar of wine and one cup.
    “So, are you ready to make good on your pledge, Haba?” he asked, taking the chair by the window. “We will try this for a little while: I will visit you as if you are my concubine and let you serve me wine.”
    “As you wish, Ilban,” Seregil said, sinking to his knees by the bed, trying very hard to sound submissive. Concubine, indeed! Bold talk for a man with no tack between his legs.
    The door remained ajar, and there were several guards posted in easy earshot, lest Seregil get any more untoward ideas. If he’d been on his own, nothing could have stopped him from breaking for it right then and there. But there was Alec to think of, and so he used every last shred of self-control he possessed to gracefully pour and pass the cup, when every instinct screamed for Ilar’s blood. But he played his role, and played it well.
    Ilar drank, then reached to stroke Seregil’s cheek as he knelt by his feet. “Hmm, this does have its charms. Very well, then. Let’s see how long you can be a good boy.”
    Seregil forced a smile. “More wine, Ilban?”
             
    Thankfully Ilar asked no more of him than that, and after a few nights Seregil’s subterfuge began to bear fruit. Ilar did not trust him, and probably never would, but Seregil could be very charming when he chose, especially with one so easily flattered. Little by little, Ilar began to lower his guard. He spoke more freely, revealed a bit more about Alec and what was being done to him. Evidently a second rhekaro had been made, but Ilar seemed strangely troubled about something.
    And still the door stayed open and the guards visible, and Seregil played the chastened slave and humbly performed the tasks required, all the while watching and listening, and biding his time.

    One evening a week or so after their truce, Ilar came in hobbling a little and lowered himself into the chair with care.
    “Are you hurt, Master?” Seregil asked, trying