“Scera,” Seregil said at the first one—Aurënfaie for “cold.” He always used ’faie words, figuring any Skalan who blundered in here was less likely to guess in that language. Only once, when the Cockerel Inn had stood on this site, had anyone gotten past them, with tragic results. The current ones were wishful thinking in the summer heat.

“Por.” Snow. “Taka.” Cool water. “Ura teshil.” Miserable bastard.

Reaching the landing, he spoke the last. “Temi.” Ice.

The large sitting room was hot and stale. There were, in fact, windows, but obscured with Thero’s magic, which rendered them invisible from the outside even when Alec opened the shutters to catch what breeze he could. Seregil lit several lamps with the candle and carried the bucket into the bedchamber across the room.

They’d used the place sporadically since the spring. A layer of dust had settled over the workbench under the east window, the old sheets covering the couch and dining table, and the clutter of letters, locks, jewel caskets, and oddities on the marble mantelpiece, including three Plenimaran slave collars propped up there, one sized for a child.

Pain closed around Alec’s heart again. Two reminders in one day, and this one his own doing. He had no doubt that the little rhekaro was better off among the Hâzadriëlfaie—safe from harm and from causing it—but the loss was still a raw, throbbing wound in Alec’s heart. The sight of the collar, and the tiny braid of silver-white hair with it, kept the wound bloody, but he couldn’t bring himself to part with either.

“Alec?” Bare to the waist already, Seregil leaned out the bedroom doorway, framed in golden lamplight. Alec’s expression must have given away his thoughts. “Talí, shouldn’t we at least pack them away?”

“No.” Forcing a smile, he went to the bedroom, pulling his sweat-soaked shirt over his head as he went, then sat on the wide, velvet-hung bed to pull off his shoes and rank socks.

Seregil filled the washbasin from the bucket and gave himself a quick but thorough scrub.

As he waited, Alec absently counted Seregil’s various scars; he knew them by heart. The imprint of the cursed disk just over his breastbone—an object that had nearly cost them both their lives—was obscured by magic. Alec carried the mark of that same disk, burned into the palm of his left hand. Of the wounds that had killed him and nearly taken Seregil’s life as well, there were no traces—thanks to Sebrahn.

Seregil turned and caught his eye. “What’s wrong, talí?”

Alec just shook his head.

Seregil rinsed the flannel and wrung it out, then gently washed the day’s grime from Alec’s face and neck. “Come on now,” he said, kissing him on the top of the head and draping the wet cloth over Alec’s shoulder.