The White Road - Lynn Flewelling [59]
"You think the healing will wear off, and I'll drop dead?"
"We don't know that it won't."
She set her cup back on the tray, then reached into a basket beside her and took out some knitting--a half-finished mitten like the green-and-white pair she'd given him, but blue this time. She set to work, wooden needles clicking swiftly. How could she just sit there and calmly knit after that?
"I think you're wrong," he managed at last.
"And why is that?"
"If his magic doesn't last, then why would the alchemist go to such trouble to make one? Yhakobin didn't know Sebrahn could kill, but he knew their bodies and blood could be used to make some elixir. And maybe he knew Sebrahn had the power to give life, as well."
"And wouldn't that be worth any risk to recover Sebrahn and you? And all the more reason to think that whoever is left in Plenimar who knows the secret of his existence will not let you go so easily."
"That's not going to happen again," he vowed, meeting her gaze without wavering this time. "I'll die first. And this time for good."
She looked up from her knitting. "Don't say that lightly, little brother, in case one of your gods is listening."
Mydri's words haunted him, and he kept them to himself, even when Seregil asked why he looked so serious that night at supper.
Over the next few days he managed to fill his time with other things, which wasn't that hard to do. He'd never had so many people treat him as kin. Micum's family had been the first, but now that feeling was multiplied by dozens. He especially enjoyed the young friends he'd made, and it saddened him to wonder when--or if--he'd see them again.
CHAPTER 13
Making Use of the Useless
ULAN I SATHIL'S SPIES sent word that Seregil and the other had indeed gone to ground in Bokthersa, and that there was a child with them, one with yellow hair and silver eyes--one never seen to eat. To kidnap them from there would be far too difficult, not to mention an unforgivable breach of honor. If caught at it, the consequences were too dire to contemplate. Having lived this long, Ulan had no intention of dying by the two bowls--not when he was so close to his goal. However, his prey had youth on their side; he could only afford to wait so long. Perhaps spring would bring them out.
In the meantime, he fought against the disease in his lungs as best he could, and between fits amused himself by nursing Ilar back to life and winning his trust. It was too dangerous to call him by his true name, lest someone remember him. Instead he went by his slave name--Khenir. He'd borne it for so long, he seemed more at ease with it.
It also became clear that Ilar had been genuinely devoted to his alchemist master, whom he still called "Ilban" and spoke of as if the man were still alive. He often rubbed the lighter skin at his throat, too, as if he missed the collar being there. What he felt for the others was less clear. He seemed to hate Alec, but sometimes rambled about pleasant moments spent together at the villa before their escape. And Seregil? In some twisted, angry way, he seemed to want to possess him, and spoke at times as if he had at some point. It finally came out that Seregil had been his slave for a brief time--something that Ulan had a hard time imagining.
For the first weeks Ulan had feared that the man's mind might remain unhinged. Ilar could not bear to be touched, would not leave his room, and kept his scars carefully hidden, unaware that his host had observed him many times through the peephole in his room. Ilar had been a proud young man, and that had worked to his detriment as a slave, as his many stripes and scars attested.
Ulan visited him each morning and evening, listening for any new detail. Ilar had wept a great deal in the early days, and when he did talk, he went round and round in his mind, recalling scattered details of their escape and dwelling on the fact that Seregil was still alive. Ulan couldn't tell if what Ilar felt for Seregil