CHAPTER 8

No Stomach for Magic

SEREGIL WOKE IN darkness, chilled to the bone and caught in a wave of gut-wrenching nausea. His mouth was filled with the mingled bitterness of bile and iron; his teeth grated against a thin, flat metal plate that pressed on his tongue. He shuddered at the sensation and another wave of nausea threatened. The sour reek of vomit was strong, and a rushing, pounding sound filled his ears. Wherever he was, it was dark and moving. As his mind cleared, he recognized the sounds.

A ship. Bilairy’s Sack, I’m in a ship’s hold. How the—?

Moving his arms and legs carefully, he ascertained that although no bones seemed to be broken, he was shackled hand and foot. Gagging, he tried to sit up, but his head felt too heavy. He collapsed back on his side and felt rough planking against his bare skin. Metal dug into his temple, and the plate between his teeth shifted, cutting the side of his mouth. He was naked, too.

Just his luck.

They’ve got me in branks.

He rolled slowly onto his back, trying to ease the pressure of the iron cage around his head. Rough chain bit into the underside of his jaw, holding the wretched apparatus in place.

The last thing he recalled was the ambush in the forest. How in the name of the Four had he gotten on a ship? And in this condition, too?

What became of Phoria’s message sticks? he wondered dully. And what will she do when no word arrives?

He was still too addled from the dra’gorgos attack to get further than that, but knew from experience that the illness was probably his usual reaction to magic. His first thought was that someone had sent him here by a translocation spell, but if so, the effects would be wearing off by now. Instead, he was still wretchedly sick, and it was making it hard to concentrate. And since he wasn’t given to seasickness, something must be acting on him, probably some spell on the shackles. He never knew how a new magic would affect him, but more often than not it was unpleasant. This certainly fit the pattern.

He pulled weakly at the shackles and heard the dull drag of heavy chains against wood. There was a long bar between his hands, making it impossible to use them effectively, and another between his feet. He dragged his right hand awkwardly to his face and used his lips and cheek to examine the thick metal band around his wrist. It was a handspan wide, and he could feel neither lock nor seam. He twisted his wrists and the bands cut into his flesh; too tight to wiggle out of, even if he disjointed his thumbs. That was almost a relief; it had been a long time since he’d had to use such drastic measures and he was in enough pain as it was.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he found he could make out a thin sliver of light far overhead that was mostly likely a hatchway. Squinting, he made out the heavy staples his chains were secured to, and then, further away, the shapes of others bound as he was.

“Ah-ek!” It was impossible to speak properly around the branks. “Ar-ek? ’ere are you?”

Suddenly the darkness was filled with frantic voices, all of them as garbled as his own, and none of them Alec’s.

Exhausted and sick, he lay still, trying to ignore the terrible discomfort, and the stink of his own vomit pooled near his head.

Over the rush of the waves against the hull, he could make out the thump of bare feet on the deck overhead, and voices. When he finally made out a few words, his heart sank even lower. They were speaking Zengati.

So, he was on a slave ship, and Alec wasn’t with him.

Seregil clenched his teeth against the iron plate, using the shivery pain to fight down a burst of panic. He couldn’t afford any distractions. He tried to tell himself that Alec could have escaped, but memories of the ambush in the forest won out. Whoever his captors were, they had killed anyone they didn’t mean to take.

And Alec wasn’t here.

Panic won, and he thrashed in impotent rage, until he was bloody and too weak to move.

For the first time in a very long time, he was helpless.