Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [52]
“No, wait. Please!” He heard the soft sound of a door closing.
Frustrated and confused, he stared helplessly up at the dark canopy over the bed. He had to gather his wits, and soon!
But it was so hard. He felt sluggish, drugged. The struggle to think made him short of breath, as if he were climbing a mountain rather than lying flat on his back.
He’d been deathly ill, she’d said, and he certainly felt like it. His body hurt all over, and there were spots of a stronger, throbbing pain on the underside of his right forearm, and on the back of his left calf where it rested against the sheets.
Sheets? His wandering mind veered of its own volition. He flexed the fingers of one hand and felt smooth linen and the give of a soft mattress. What slave was given this sort of bed? Had the veiled woman been lying? Had he misunderstood?
But no, he remembered that much from the ship—rough, grasping hands, then pain and the smell of his own flesh being seared, cutting through the fog of illness.
“Fucking hell! Fucking, rotting balls of hell!” he whispered helplessly.
He was tucked in tightly under heavy quilts. It took all the strength he could muster to slowly work his right arm free. There, black against the pale underside of his forearm, was a small, scabbed brand in the shape of the letter S. He reached up and touched the metal collar around his neck. It was about a finger’s width in thickness, the metal rounded and very smooth.
“Aura Illustri!” He let his arm fall and closed his eyes, fighting down a rush of nausea as more fragmented memories seeped back.
The ambush. The smell. The shock of seeing the hideous black dra’gorgos bearing down on him. How could such an abomination appear on Aurënfaie soil? It could only mean that one of their attackers had been a necromancer; no one else could summon the unclean things.
And screaming. He was certain he remembered someone screaming.
“Alec!” Real panic set in then, and he managed to raise his head enough to see that there was no one else in the bed, and no sight of anyone else in what he could see of the room.
He’d called out for his sister, but not his talimenios? Panting, sick, and overwhelmed with guilt, he fell back against the pillow as tears welled in the corners of his eyes.
Screaming. Who had been screaming? Was it Alec? Was he dead, like all the others?
No! he told himself fiercely. No, I’d know. I’d remember that!
Yet try as he might, he couldn’t be certain, any more than he could summon the memory of what had followed.
The slaver’s mark was all he had to go on, and that was the worst possible news, for there were only two places he could be right now: in Plenimar, or in Zengat.
And yet for slavers to venture so far inland on Aurënen soil was unheard of in that part of the country. And what would they be doing with a necromancer?
He tried again to move, but the last of his strength had deserted him. As consciousness fled, however, a sudden realization followed him down into the darkness.
“Betrayed!” he mumbled to the empty room. “Phoria, I’ll see you dead!”
CHAPTER 18
Caged Doubts
FOR THE FIRST few days, Seregil didn’t have the strength to get away even if they’d left the door open for him. Instead, he had to settle for alternating between fretting over what could have become of Alec and making what observations he could make from his bed.
From what little he could recall from the ship, his captors had probably placed some sort of magical ward on him, and apparently he’d had his usual reaction to it. His skin was still sallow and he’d lost a considerable amount of weight. His belly was sunken and his ribs were more prominent than usual. The magic had eaten into his muscles, too, and his arms looked thin. In addition to the brands, he had sores and scabs over a good part of his body. The old woman had been right in thinking he’d nearly died.
He had no way of knowing what the collar around his neck looked like, or was made of, but it was very hard metal. At least it wasn’t magicked.