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be forced to make a break for it from one of the courtyards and hope for luck.
The one between the main house and the alchemist s workroom appeared to be the best bet, and he d
memorized every tree, rough bit of stone, and vine. The wall fountain was very promising, as was the
thick climbing rose that grew up the side of the workshop. It would tear the skin from his hands and feet
for sure, but that would be a small price to pay.
The alchemist had seemed very pleased when, the day after he d spoken with Khenir, Alec began
accepting the silver cup without a fight. The tin amulet was exchanged for one of iron, then one of
copper.
Yhakobin hadn t bothered with the blood flame spell for several days, and today was no exception.
As soon as Alec downed the tincture, the alchemist motioned to the guards and went to the forge.
Ilban? May I ask a question? Alec asked quickly as the men closed in on him.
Surprised, Yhakobin turned back to him. What is it?
That slave called Khenir says this is a purification. Please, Ilban, what is it you are purifying out of
me?
He told you that, did he? Well, no matter. Yhakobin chuckled as he turned and tossed the used
amulet into the forge. It s nothing you ll miss, I assure you. Here, I have a new book for you, a reward
for your good behavior.
Alec accepted the volume with a humble nod, and his guards led him away.
And so the days went: one to himself, and the next back to the workshop. The copper amulet was
changed for one of something Yhakobin called sophic mercury, and he was made to drink Tincture of
Quicksilver. This one tasted especially foul, and cramped his belly a little, but even so, he found he was
feeling remarkably well in spite of his situation and the wretchedly bland food. His mind was wonderfully
clear, and he felt stronger, even with the lack of meat.
He d hoped to see Khenir again, but that day passed as usual, with no sign of him. With nothing else
to do, he perused the new book. This one was a history of the coming of the first Hierophant. Plenimar
had been his seat of power, according to this writer, and Skala had broken away, waging war unjustly to
gain control of all the Three Lands, and the sacred isle of Kouros.
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
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