Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [148]
Ilar’s soft laugh was bitter. “Can either of us call himself that anymore?”
“That’s the blood that runs in our veins, no matter what anyone says, or does to us.”
“I see. Well, I’ll try to take your advice, until someone sees me naked. I’ll be quite the darling of the baths, won’t I?”
“Self-pity is not a very productive emotion, you know. Or an attractive one.”
“Forgive me, Ilban,” Ilar returned with heavy sarcasm.
Seregil bit back a snide remark, not wanting to wake Alec. Even asleep, the younger man had dark rings of exhaustion under his eyes. He lay curled on his side with his head on the bundle, with Sebrahn nestled against his chest as always.
“I wanted to die when I was first exiled, but I was too young and scared to carry through,” Seregil admitted softly. “But after that passed, even with all the shame—Despite what you may think, going to Idrilain’s court in disgrace wasn’t pleasant. Everyone knew why I was there, and what I’d done. But a wise friend told me that if you act like a whipped dog, that’s how people treat you, and that I’d better learn to hold my head up if I wanted anyone’s respect ever again.”
“That’s easily said.” Ilar turned away and stared out at the sinking sun. “I’m so dirty.” Seregil thought he was talking of his spirit before he added, “The sound of that stream is driving me mad. Please, can I go and wash?”
Seregil hesitated, tempted by the idea himself. They hadn’t seen or heard anyone all day, and just down the hill from where they sat, the stream curved in among the trees. The sun was nearly down and stars were already showing through the branches overhead. “All right. We’ll keep watch for each other.”
Seregil went first. Leaving his sword within easy reach, he stripped off his coat and squatted on the muddy bank, trying to wash away the sweat and stink. He glanced down at his right arm where the brand had been, glad not to go the rest of his life with that kind of reminder in plain sight. Bad enough that he’d let himself and Alec be taken like that; he felt most guilty at how long it had taken him to get loose again.
Long enough for that thing to be made. And he loves it, too, as if it really were his child. Seregil bent to rinse his hair in the current, thinking again of the oracle’s prophecy. If this wasn’t the fulfillment of it, then it was damn close.
The cold water felt wonderful against his sweaty scalp. He stayed there a moment, then sat up and shook his head like a dog, scattering droplets in all directions.
“Now I’m wet, too.”
Seregil looked back over his shoulder and was startled to see Ilar standing close beside him. He is a ’faie, after all, he thought, but still disliked having the man creep up on him like that.
Ilar wiped his face on his sleeve, leaving a streak of wet dust on his cheek. “That much less I need to wash, eh, Haba?”
“Don’t call me that,” Seregil snapped, more out of habit than any real anger.
“I’m sorry. I’ve always thought of you that way.”
“Well, don’t,” Seregil growled, going back to his washing.
“I wish Alec could forgive me. I really do like him, you know. It wasn’t easy, lying to him like that, but I had no choice.”
“So you keep saying.” Seregil snorted as he washed his face.
A light touch on his shoulder startled him. He slapped Ilar’s hand away and stood up, water running down his chest to soak the front of his trousers. “Damn you! What do you want from me?”
Ilar stepped closer. “Your forgiveness, Seregil. I don’t understand. You saved my life, but you still treat me like a plague rat. Why didn’t you kill me or leave me when you had the chance?”
“I’ve been asking myself that a lot.”
Ilar smoothed a hand down the front of his dirty robe. “You didn’t know, did you, what had really become of me? You thought I was wandering around free, just like you.”
And there it was again, thought Seregil, that little fish hook tug in his heart. Ilar held his gaze as he undid the ties at the neck of his robe and pulled it off over his head, baring his devastated body—the scars, the stripes, and the