Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [53]
Despite his dire situation, he was glad to be clean and comfortable. Even his hair and nails had been neatly trimmed. He knew better than to mistake this for kindness on the part of whoever had bought him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it for now. It was certainly better than the condition he’d been in, and it gave him a chance to start recovering his strength.
Judging by the slant of light through the window, and the slice of blue sky he could see, he guessed that his room was on an upper floor. It was a surprisingly fine chamber for a slave. Though sparsely furnished with a bed and a heavy armchair by the hearth, the walls were paneled with polished wood; here and there the patina showed lighter in places where some hanging or furniture had been removed. The stout door was locked from the outside and no one came in except for the old woman. He caught a glimpse of an armed man at the door whenever she entered.
He slept a great deal and thrashed through nightmares of the ambush—dreams in which Alec lay dead on the ground with the others. He woke trembling and sweating, sick with not knowing whether it was a memory or a phantasm created by his fears.
Interspersed with these dark dreams were others, more snippets and flashes of his own past—of Adzriel and events from his childhood, before he’d been banished. Some were clear, others jumbled and confused, with only the impression of gentle hands touching him. At times they were innocent and he thought it must be his sister, but at others those hands roamed over his body, stirring his flesh and making him ache for more. No matter how he tried, he could not see who his dream lover was. He woke from these feeling sick in a different way, and strangely guilty.
The old woman came to him several times each day, bringing him food and helping him bathe. He was kept to milk and bread, and thin broths, but the servings were generous and he ate everything offered, in order to gain his strength back. But it was a frustrating battle and his body was slow to mend.
His nurse was a hard one to draw out. She was kind to him in her way while he was weak, but grew more shy and nervous as he regained his strength. He kept at her not only because she was his only link outside this room but because it distracted him from his fears.
With some charm and persistence, he learned that her name was Zoriel and that she’d been a possession of “the master’s” family for generations, since she was a young girl. She couldn’t even remember the name of her clan. Looking into those faded blue eyes, he saw no spirit there, only long-ingrained resignation and lingering traces of fear. She spoke of the “master” with reverence but refused to tell Seregil anything of him, not even his name.
“I daren’t,” she said, nervously fingering the worn metal band at her throat.
Seregil didn’t press her but instead tried to get a sense of the household and whether there were any other ’faie there.
“A few,” she told him, eyes going vague. “But I’m not to talk to you about that, either. Please, don’t ask any more, young son. It’s not for me to say.”
“Please, just one more question,” Seregil said, taking her hands. Her fingers were bent and chapped by years of hard work. “Is there a young man with long blond hair here? He’d have arrived the same time I did, most likely as a slave. Please, old mother, he’s dear to me, and I don’t even know if he’s alive.”
“I’ve seen no one like that.” She pulled free and began gathering up the day’s soiled linens and empty dishes. “You’re the only new slave I know of, and you’re my only concern. I 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?