Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [65]
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, Haba? Do say so if you’re not.” Cruel glee began to show through the solicitous mask.
“What…Poison…”
“No, just one of my master’s tinctures. It’s not the first time you’ve had it, you know. Been sleeping well since you came here? Have your dreams been especially vivid?” He held up a silver perfume flask and pulled out the stopper, waving it under Seregil’s nose. The scent of wandril flowers. Adzriel’s scent.
“Bas—”
“What’s that? Do speak up.” Ilar set the flask aside, then leaned close and stroked Seregil’s hair and cheek. Then he leaned closer still and kissed him, thrusting his tongue deep into his mouth.
Seregil tried to bite him and Ilar pulled back, wiping his lips. “You used to like it when I did that.” This time he stroked his fingers down Seregil’s bare arm and across his chest, sending an involuntary shiver through him. Ilar paused as his fingers found the scar in the middle of Seregil’s chest.
“What’s this? Ah, but you can’t answer.” He traced the outline of the round mark, then examined the dragon bite on Seregil’s hand. “That’s a most impressive mark. Who knows all the things you’ve done, to get so many interesting scars since we last met.” Ilar stroked his cheek again. “I’ve been so very patient, all these years. I waited a very long time to see you again, my little Haba. Oh, I’ve enjoyed our evenings together lately, but it’s so much nicer with you awake.”
Seregil thought of those dreams he’d had, of an unseen lover touching him, coaxing his aching response. He’d have gagged if he’d