Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [76]
Moving, however, proved a worse idea than ever. His bruised muscles had stiffened while he slept; even this slightest movement was too painful, and his head felt like an inflated bladder on a stick. He gave up. “What do you want?”
The scratching became a soft tapping, brief and faint.
“Who is it?” he demanded more loudly, wondering if he was in fact addressing a rat.
“You are Seregil, of Bôkthersa clan?” a woman whispered in Aurënfaie. “Come to the door.”
He tried again, but the prospect of dragging himself across the floor was too much right now. He was still seeing double and felt dizzy just raising his head. “I can’t. Who are you?”
“Zoriel sent me. She fears for you.”
“Tell her I’m fine.” He waited, but there was no response. “Please, where is the young man who was here before me?”
Again silence. He waited, but his mysterious visitor was gone. Why hadn’t he asked about Alec first? In the back of his mind lurked the very real possibility that Alec was gone from the house—sold off, or dead—
Focus, damn it! You’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than this.
Then again, he didn’t really know what sort of scrape he’d landed in just yet. Alec had been kept here, and the few times that Seregil had seen him in the garden, he’d looked well enough.
He stared up into the darkness, assessing the strange, brief conversation. He was surprised that the old woman cared enough to ask after him. And it seemed she’d had to convince a third party to do it for her, and apparently at some risk. His visitor had spoken Aurënfaie, meaning either she was a slave or that someone intended for him to believe she was.
Dawn found him still awake. Using the wall to brace against, he managed to get on his feet and limp around the confines of the little room, trying to work some of the pain from his body. His vision was better now, at least.
A thorough search left him depressed and disappointed. Whoever had built this cell had known what he was doing. There wasn’t a damn thing he could make use of, unless he could take down the guards with the pail. Which wasn’t completely out of the question.
Time passed and no breakfast appeared. Forcing himself up again, he searched again, looking closely at every inch of the place. While examining the door, he came across the scratched names. Khenir’s was there, and Alec’s, too. Seregil traced the awkwardly incised lettering with the tip of his finger, then added his own beside it, in case they changed places again. “I’ll find you, talí. Hold on.”
He was given no food or water that day. No one came near him at all. That night he moved the pallet across to the door, hoping his unseen visitor would come again, but the night passed in silence.
The following morning a sullen man brought him a pitcher of water and a stale crust of bread, but no water for washing. Seregil ate sparingly and was glad when they had no ill effect.
He wasn’t so lucky that evening. The morning meal had been too small, and by suppertime he couldn’t resist the temptation of warm bread and cheese. Nor was he surprised when the numbness of the drug stole over him again. He almost welcomed it, assuming that it meant Ilar would soon arrive to taunt him. Perhaps he could get him to let slip where Alec was. If nothing else, it was good not to be in quite so much pain for a while.
He’d guessed right. Ilar approached him more carefully this time. It amused Seregil, but he was too far gone to laugh. Lying there, helpless and numb under the quilts, he noted with satisfaction the bruises showing on Ilar’s throat above the neck of his robe. He could make out the marks of his own fingers on the pale flesh behind the golden collar.
Just give me another chance to finish that job.
Ilar squatted down by the pallet and gripped him by the hair, giving his head a painful shake. “I suppose you’re very proud of yourself.