Alec read half of it out of sheer boredom, and then paced his cell restlessly, listening to the mundane noises from outside and wishing desperately he was out there. He’d happily work in the kitchen or split firewood, just for something to do!
The following day was just like the last. He was too restless to read, and instead spent the afternoon pacing and performing some strengthening exercises Seregil had taught him during the long winter months they’d spent in the cabin. He’d need to be fit when it came time to run. Without knowing it, the alchemist was preparing him well for that, he thought with a smile. How pleasant it would be to thank him at the point of a knife.
As he dropped into a crouch, preparing to practice his leaps, the slant of light across the bottom of the door caught his eye. There was something scratched into the wood, visible only from this angle. At first glance it looked like lines of random marks, but on closer inspection, he saw that it was writing and most of it in Aurënfaie. He had to lie on his belly to read it, with his body at a slant so as not to block the light.
The lettering was crude, almost unreadable, and Alec wondered whether the author had lain here, at the end of his strength, and what he had used to write with. He traced the line of scratches with a finger to find the beginning and read: “Malis, son of Koris.” Just below it, he found another name that made his heart skip a beat: it read simply “Khenir, without hope.” And at the corner of the panel, another: “Ulia, daughter of Ponia, my curse be on…”
This one was unfinished. Were you interrupted, he wondered, or did you just give up?
He searched the bottom of the door and found over a dozen more such inscriptions, some with names, others anonymous expressions of fear, grief, and despair. Several of the curses mentioned Yhakobin by name. In other places, there were tiny crescent moons, Aura’s symbol, incised with a fingernail.
Here are the others, those who came before me, but where are they now? Why are Khenir and the children’s nurse the only ones left?
He found a clear spot and used his thumbnail to inscribe a crescent moon, and his own name: Alec, son of Amasa. He sat back, sucking his sore thumb. It had been an impulse, to add his name, but he suddenly wished he hadn’t. Those listed there, save Khenir, had all disappeared, their fates unknown. Was this his fate, as well?
His dreams were wild that night—all battles and killing and running through dark forests. He even dreamed of escaping and finding Seregil. In the dream, he stole through the house in the dark, checking door after door and finding them locked, until at last one upstairs opened and there was Seregil, waiting for him with open arms and that beloved crooked grin. Alec ran to him, but woke before they could touch. The dream had been so vivid that he lay awake for a long time, heart pounding, sunk in renewed despair. If he disappeared here, like those others, Seregil would never know what happened to him. He’d be nothing more than a name on the door, lost in the shadows of this wretched little room.
There was a brief delay at Yhakobin’s door the following morning. When the guards finally led him inside, he saw that the alchemist was not alone. A very tall bearded man dressed in a red surcoat stood by the little painted tent at the far end of the room. His eyes were black and hard, and he fixed Alec with a sharp look as he took his usual place near the anvil. The stranger spoke with Yhakobin for a moment, looking at Alec all the while. When they were finished, Yhakobin turned to Alec and smiled.
“You are looking very well! Let me have my drop first.” Yhakobin was in unusually high spirits today and Alec wondered if it had anything to do with the mysterious visitor.
Alec held out his finger, uncomfortably aware of the stranger’s intense gaze.
Yhakobin pricked it and repeated the blood spell. This time the flame burned a vivid blue and lasted for some moments. He spoke to the visitor again, obviously pleased.
Apparently satisfied, the other man bowed and took his leave.
“Excellent! Better even than I’d dared hope,” said Yhakobin.
Alec wasn’t sure if he was referring to the color of the blood flame or his visitor’s reaction to it. “If I may, Ilban, who was that man?”
“That, my young friend, was Duke Theris Urghan, cousin to and legate of his Majesty, the Overlord. He was here inquiring after my progress with you. And I must say, I was able to give him a very good report.” He took Alec’s chin between his fingers and inspected his face closely, turning it this way and that. “Oh yes, much better than expected. And I daresay you’re feeling quite well, too.”
The alchemist’s elation made Alec nervous. What was it Yhakobin was seeing that pleased him so much? Alec thought of those who’d left their names on the door. Had they seen this same gleam in the man’s eyes?
“My, you are serious today.” Yhakobin took a polished metal mirror from one of the tables and held it up in front of him. “See what I’ve done for you, boy, and show a bit of gratitude.”
Alec took one look and let out a choked gasp, shocked at the stranger he saw in the reflection. Far from growing pale from lack of meat, his coloring had heightened. His eyes looked bluer, and his hair, though lank from lack of washing, seemed to shine a brighter gold.
But that wasn’t the only change. He looked more ’faie somehow, as if the very planes of his face had been altered.
“I don’t understand!” he gasped, touching his cheek with superstitious awe. “What have you done to me, Ilban?”
Yhakobin held out the daily draught to him, but Alec balled his fists on his knees and shook his head. “Why do I look different?”
“Not so different, and nothing that will do you the least bit of harm, as I promised. I am a man of my word, Alec. Behave now, and drink this without a fuss. It’s far too valuable to spill.”
“No!”
He knew it was futile, but he fought anyway as the guards held him down and pinched his nose shut. Yhakobin thrust the leather funnel down his throat and poured the contents of the cup in. They held him until he gagged down every drop, then dragged him up to his knees at Yhakobin’s feet.
The alchemist shook his head as he fastened a silver amulet to Alec’s collar. “I should thrash you, but I’m too pleased with your progress.”
“What did you do?” Alec demanded again, gagging at the sweet taste that filled his throat.
“All I’ve done, Alec, is refine your Aurënfaie blood, cleansing it as best I can of the taint of your human parent. I can’t remove it completely, and the effects last only as long as the tinctures do their work, but at this moment you are more ’faie than you have ever been in your life.”
Alec pressed his clenched fists against his knees, fighting the urge to fly at the man. Tainted? His father—his human father—was the only family he’d ever known! He could have cried at the thought of losing what little connection he had left to him, but he wouldn’t give these bastards that satisfaction again. Instead, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. Play the role, Alec. Play it to the hilt.
“Forgive me, Ilban. It was the shock. I—I wasn’t prepared.”
To his surprise, Yhakobin went to the forge and lifted out a kettle that had been warming on a hook by the fire. He poured two steaming cups and handed one to Alec, motioning him to a low stool.
Yhakobin sat down in a large chair next to him and took a sip from his cup. Alec sniffed his. It smelled like a very good, strong tea, nothing more.
“You’ve had your draught for the day,” the alchemist assured him. “This is tea from southern Aurënen, the best in the world. See, I’m drinking it, too.”
Alec took a cautious taste, and then another. By the Four, he’d missed the taste of good tea almost as much as meat. This was delicious; the warmth of it spread through him, and with it thoughts of home.
“Thank you, Ilban,” he said, and for the first time he actually meant it. “But I’m surprised. You drink Aurënfaie tea?”
Yhakobin smiled at that. “Surely you aware that many of the clans trade with us, and have for centuries. Virésse, for
instance. Ulan í Sathil and I are on very good terms.”
Alec froze, cup halfway to his lips. He and Seregil had had dealings with the leader of the Virésse clan during Klia’s negotiations in Aurënen. Ulan was a smooth, ruthless man, and one not likely to forgive them for their role in breaking up the Virésse monopoly on Aurënen’s trade with the Three Lands.
Could it have been him who betrayed us? What was a year’s time for an Aurënfaie to wait, who counted time in decades? Perhaps all Ulan had to do was bide his time until they came back to Aurënen. And there’d been no secrecy about their mission.
“Is there something wrong with your tea?” asked Yhakobin.
Alec shook his head and took another sip of the fragrant tea, letting it wash away the lingering aftertaste of the tincture.
“The world is a large place, Alec, and I think you have seen only a little bit of it in your young life. You’ve been taught things about my country that are not true.”
I knew you kept slaves, Alec thought, but wisely held his tongue.
“And you know nothing of alchemy, do you? Would you like to know more?”
“Yes, Ilban,” Alec replied eagerly, though not for the reason Yhakobin probably thought.
Yhakobin filled both their cups again. “Alchemy is the art of manipulating the consciousness that exists in all matter. With skill and knowledge, an alchemist can effect great transformations.”
“Turning lead into gold?” Alec asked, skeptical.
“That is certainly one of the better-known applications, the epitome of the lowly puffer’s art, but one of very minor importance to any serious alchemist. No, we seek a deeper spiritual transformation, to heal the inner disharmonies of individuals, and of the world.”
He pointed to an elaborate tower of glass vessels, now brewing on the athanor. They were the round-bellied type, with down-curving, snout-shaped outlets, each shedding drops of something into a small, three-legged cauldron covered in raised symbols.
“The distillation vessel is one of the more common implements. One of our great arts is that of refining and transformation. It was an alchemist who discovered the smelting of iron from base ore a great many years before our ancestors came to this part of the world. Others perfected the elegant balance of alloys to create hard steel, bronze, and other high metals. And we discovered the combinations of metal, symbols, and auspicious hours that give power to objects, such as that amulet you’re wearing.
“But most importantly, we learned to extract powerful medicines from metals, minerals, common animal matter, and herbs. These tinctures I’ve given you are of that nature. They cleave to and bind impure energies in your blood, so that they can be removed by the natural functions of the body.” He smiled. “In that way. I have been your physician. Or, if you prefer, your body has been like one of my distillation vessels. By combining the right elements under the proper conditions, I have transformed you into what you saw in the mirror.”
“But why go to the trouble when you could have just bought yourself a pure ’faie?” Alec asked, intrigued in spite of himself.
“Because never before have I found one of your exquisite lineage. You are unique.”
Alec kept his attention on his tea. While many people in Aurënen had made a fuss over his Hâzadriëlfaie blood, he’d been more of a curiosity than a wonder. No one had thought him particularly special. Khenir’s talk of breeding and gelding came back to him, making his skin prickle uncomfortably.
“May I ask, Ilban, why that’s so important? I’d been given to believe that the Hâzadriëlfaie were only a minor clan.”
“They are not a clan at all, but a group of individuals united by a unique accident of nature. I assure you, Alec, you are a very special young man. With your help, I will perhaps be able to make a very powerful medicine, indeed. One that may well cure all the ills of the body. Is that not a worthy goal?”
“And you need Hâzadriëlfaie blood for that?”
“Only that will do. And according to the texts, an even purer elixir can be distilled to prolong the human span of life to that of a ’faie. A very long time ago, longer even than ’faie memory, an alchemist from my land discovered the secret method of distilling it. The Hâzadriëlfaie selfishly wanted no part of the work, though. That’s why they took themselves away as they did, and the few Aurënfaie who knew the truth are long dead, and the memory is lost there. But here in Plenimar the secret teachings have been passed down in certain lines. I am the scion of one of those lineages.”
“What would happen if a ’faie used the elixir that makes their life longer?”
“A very interesting question. Now, I must get back to work. And despite your earlier unruliness, I believe you deserve a reward today. Would you like to walk in my meditation garden with Khenir?”
Alec bowed deeply to hide his sudden rush of excitement, both at seeing the closest thing he had to a friend here and at the opportunity for a better look at that garden. “Thank you, Ilban. I would like that very much.”
“Good. It must give you some comfort, having another ’faie to converse with.”
“It does, Ilban.” And it did.
When the guards came for him as usual, Khenir was with them. He wore a cloak over his house robe, and held up another for Alec, and a pair of thick, felted wool slippers.
Alec started to thank him, but Khenir caught his eye and made a quick, nervous nod in Yhakobin’s direction. Alec turned and made a small bow. “Thank you again for your kindness, Ilban.”
“And the veil, Khenir,” Yhakobin reminded him.
Khenir handed Alec a veil similar to the one he was wearing and helped him tie it on. The guards let them out, but gave Khenir charge of the chain attached to Alec’s collar.
“I’m sorry. Ilban’s orders,” Khenir whispered with an apologetic smile.
“It’s all right. I understand,” Alec whispered back, too eager to get into the garden to care about it.
One of the guards growled at Khenir as they left the workshop and he immediately bowed and said something servile. It hurt Alec to see it; the Aurënfaie were a proud and dignified people. He thought again of the lash marks he’d seen on Khenir’s shoulders, and on the back of the slave on the ship. It made him ashamed again of how easily he’d acquiesced so far, even if he did have good reason.
The guards escorted them through the small side gate to their left and into the fountain court. A covered portico encircled it on three sides. The inner walls were painted a brilliant blue and bright, fanciful scenes of sea life showed through the white pillars. Neatly laid out paths of crushed shell led through tidy herb beds and leafless bushes to a large round fountain at the center of the garden. A slender pillar of white stone supported four stylized fish, whose spouting mouths filled the basin below.
Alec took all this in at a glance, then turned to more important elements. This courtyard occupied the angle between the main house and the workshop gardens, and was solidly enclosed on those sides. Over the east and south walls, however, he saw treetops and sky. There were two more guards, as well, stationed at the far end of the garden. The two who’d escorted them here remained on guard by the gate, leaving Alec and Khenir at least the semblance of privacy for a little while.
Khenir kept a grip on Alec’s lead but linked his other arm companionably through Alec’s as he led him around the portico to admire the frescoes. The simple friendliness of the gesture brought a lump to Alec’s throat.
“What did those guards say to you before?” Alec whispered.
“They don’t like us speaking our own language, which they can’t understand. We’re well contained here, though, so they’re less concerned. They’ve agreed to let us walk about while they and the others keep watch.”
It was such a relief to be out in the fresh air that for a little while Alec let himself forget about tinctures and masters and guards and simply lost himself in the pleasure of being outside. It was a fine day; the cold, sweet breeze carried the smell of pine and the sea. Gu
lls circled high overhead, shining white against the deep blue of the sky.
“Are we close to the coast?” he asked.
“About five miles,” Khenir replied. His hand tightened on Alec’s arm as he whispered, “I know what you’re thinking, and you must put such thoughts from your mind. Ilban’s men are trained slave trackers.”
“You’ve never tried?”
Khenir glanced nervously back in the guards’ direction. “I did—once, before I came here. I was fortunate that the master who held me then didn’t want me maimed. But he punished me so badly he might as well have. It’s a different world here, Alec. You must accept that.”
“So I should just give up?” Alec hissed bitterly.
“Yes. With that face and that hair, you wouldn’t get a mile before you were caught.”
Alec knew a thing or two about not being seen, but held his tongue.
They left the portico and walked along the shell paths. Khenir took off his veil and turned his face up to the pale sun. Alec did the same, savoring the feel of the breeze against his bare skin. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to wearing the hated scrap of fabric. He’d worn masks nightrunning, but this was a badge of shame.
“Why do they only make ’faie slaves wear these?”
“As a reminder of our bondage,” Khenir replied. “But they also protect us, shielding us from the eyes of other masters.”
“What do you mean?”
“If a noble of higher standing came here and decided he wanted you, Lord Yhakobin would have no choice but to sell you to him, or even give you away if his guest was of a very high rank. It’s not uncommon for such things to happen, especially with comely slaves like you.”
“Bilairy’s Balls!” Alec pulled away and stared at him in disbelief. “We really are just chattel, aren’t we? Like a hound or a horse.”
“True, but it’s not always a bad thing.”
“How can you say that?”
Khenir hushed him, shooting another nervous look in the guards’ direction. “Please behave. I don’t want to be sent in so soon.”