The Complete Enslaved Chronicles

by R. K. Thorne

  “Why are they hunting you? What did you do?” His face was dark, as if he didn’t want to know but needed to.

  “I escaped. And I stole something… valuable to them.”

  “Why were you imprisoned?”

  “Imprisoned? I wasn’t imprisoned. I’m a slave. Er—was a slave, I guess.” Well, if nothing else came of this, it felt good to say that.

  “How did you become a slave?” he followed up quickly. Did the idea of slavery truly not disturb him at all? Or… did he already know? If he knew, why was he asking if she was imprisoned? “Were you a criminal?”

  “No!” she snapped. “I was simply born a mage. They have an enchanted rod—a slave brand. Like they use for cattle. When they put it in the fire and brand us, we must do whatever they ask. And they never ask for anything good.” She pulled free just far enough to pull down the collar of her shirt and reveal her scar, wincing inwardly at the thought of him seeing its ugliness just as much as she wanted to throw its existence in his face. Although still there and plenty ugly, she realized Menaha had been right. It was actually starting to heal.

  “If you were branded, then how did you escape?” He peered critically at it as if evaluating it. As if this were no surprise. His demands came quickly, although he kept his voice quiet. Wait—if he knew about the brand already, what was going on?

  “Someone figured out how to break the spell and freed me.”

  “What did you steal?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Tell me—what did you steal?”

  “I’m not telling you. I don’t trust you. And why do you even want to know, anyway?”

  He looked taken aback, almost… hurt. “Because I’m not allowed to help you if you’re a criminal, and if you stole something, it sounds like you’re a criminal.”

  A pause. “Help me?” She frowned at him. “By the gods, I’m not a criminal.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be a problem to tell me what you stole. Coin? Jewels? What?”

  She scowled at him. Was there a way out of this? His determined expression said likely there wasn’t.

  “Wouldn’t I have turned you in already if I wanted to?”

  “Well, you hadn’t seen that poster before.”

  “Damn it, Jaena, I’m trying to help you,” he hissed, anger straining his voice as he struggled to keep quiet.

  “What if I don’t need your help?”

  He held up the poster, then gestured at the door, then her ankle. Gods, she hated being injured. She kept on frowning at him stubbornly. He sighed at her. “Fine, don’t tell me. You’re free to go. Stay. Whatever you wish. I was trying to help you.”

  He turned to stalk away from her, toward the cabinet, and the floor seemed to shift out from under her at the sudden loss of his support.

  “Wait,” she said.

  He stilled, but did not turn.

  “Fine. I stole the brand the Masters use to make slaves. I want to stop them.”

  “You—” He turned wildly, his eyes flicking to her knapsack, then back to her face. She nodded. “You broke the spell—and stole… You stole it? That’s very brave.”

  “And don’t forget stupid. And I didn’t get very far, as you can see.” She sighed, glaring down at her ankle.

  He stopped for a moment, seeming to take it all in. “We have to get you—and it—out of here.” He immediately grabbed a leather saddlebag from a hook on the wall.

  “What, no—”

  “What are the chances none of the others mention you?” As he spoke, he began moving around the room and adding things. The salve. The bread. The Book of the Vigilant, another of the smallest tomes. Was he packing?

  “Wait, go? How? You’ve seen I can’t walk.”

  “The horse. We’ll take it and ride for Anonil—”

  “Wait—we?”

  He stopped and met her gaze.

  “You want to come with me?”

  He frowned again but a different one this time. He searched her face, but she had no idea what he was looking for or if he found it. “Yes. I’m coming with you.” He resumed packing, not looking at her as he went.

  He seemed sincere. How could he be sincere? “But why? You can’t leave your smithy.”

  “It will wait here for me until I get you to safety.”

  She swallowed.

  “Or another from the temple can inherit it. I’m sure. We’re going. Now.”

  “Why are you willing to help me?”

  “There’s no time to explain.”

  “They could have ridden east. We could just be drawing attention to ourselves. Who in their right mind would be riding in this rain, in the middle of the night?”

  “We will be. They won’t be looking for people because it’s a stupid time to ride.”

  “There won’t be enough light to ride. We could wait till morning. They’ll have tired and returned home. More people will be on the roads to blend in with.”

  “Or they’ll come back and search harder because a neighbor mentioned two people were here.”

  “But they left. Surely no one must have mentioned—”

  “There were three scrawny little men with that damn lantern. They could have just as easily gone for reinforcements.”

  “A lantern? What was it? And why didn’t they find me?” She had heard that strange clanking, and the Devoted had taken almost no time to look around. Why?

  “They had a metal cage like a lantern, but instead of a candle or oil, it held a purple rock. Similar to those they wear around their necks, but orange in the center, like a burning ember. They only looked at it. Seemed like they were waiting for it to do something. I assume it detects magic.”

  “Why didn’t it work?”

  He shrugged, and his eyes darted away from her gaze. Something he almost never did. He was hiding something. But what?

  “Where did you get that pendant?”

  “Why?”

  “Was it from your parents?”

  “I never knew my parents. I grew up on the streets. The temple gave it to me.”

  “So the priestesses gave it to you then?” Hmm. Interesting. Could they have known he was a mage somehow, found a way to protect him? Something similar to the magic-repression stones, but different in that they hid magic from detection instead of repressing it? Or perhaps it repressed the repressing stones, an idea so odd she’d laugh if she weren’t in this situation. Whatever it was, the pendant didn’t seem to be repressing him, with all the spellwork that swirled around them.

  “We don’t have time for this. I don’t see why it matters.”

  How could she tell him? How could she explain that he was a mage too if he didn’t already know? Should she, even? What if he didn’t want to know? But wouldn’t it be safer for him? If that pendant was all that protected him, and he lost it, he could end up in Mage Hall himself, especially living barely a day’s walk from it. And yet—he had a whole bowl of them. Why? He wasn’t telling her something.

  “Look—we need to go,” he said cutting into her thoughts. “Now.”

  She hesitated for a moment longer. She could not imagine what he could be hiding, but he had had every opportunity to turn her over to the Devoted. If he’d planned to, he could have done it already, more than once.

  If they fled, at least it would mean an end to all the waiting. On horseback, it wouldn’t be long before they made it to Akaria—or not. It would end this just waiting around for the Devoted to figure out she was here. There had to be fewer of the bastards farther away from Mage Hall, right? And if Tharomar was with her, she could decide later whether to tell him he was a mage or not. “All right, fine. Let’s go.”

  Tharomar stalked out into the rain. He’d gotten some fairly thick cloaks for them both, and they were lucky it wasn’t slightly colder, or this late fall rain would be a heavy snow. But the rain was heavy enough that it splashed everywhere and managed to get into places it normally wouldn’t otherwise. The deluge had opened up out of nowhere, and if it kept
up like this, they wouldn’t get far. The road would be black as pitch. But it was likely just a short downpour. They could pack and prepare, and then at least they would be ready to leave as soon as the rain let up. Or they could hide out in the barn, which would give them some warning if the Devoted did come back.

  He’d packed one saddlebag with perishables and a few of the precious books. He kept another ready with the saddle, packed with the necessities that lasted—flint, blankets, hunting knives. It wasn’t a long ride to Akaria and the next city anyway, where hopefully they could hide. If they couldn’t make it in one night, perhaps by nightfall tomorrow…

  He stopped and listened. Were those hoofbeats in the distance? Or was it his imagination? Hard to tell with the heavy rush of the rain.

  The last items he needed were in the smithy, so they made their way there as quickly as she was able.

  By the gods, she had stolen the damn brand. The thing they used to make the mages slaves in the first place. It had been there, just sitting on his floor by the fire all this time. It had been nearby as those Devoted searched his home. He should have pressed her for her story sooner, he should have looked in her bag when she’d fallen asleep. They could have been long gone. The order would be furious with him if he lost either her or the artifact now. But not half as furious as he’d be with himself.

  “Stay here just a second,” he said as they stopped by the entry to the smithy, its wide-open mouth facing the farms. He hoped the farmers would find a way to manage without him.

  “Do you have a staff or something?” she asked. He searched among some shovels propped by the entry. “We can’t go far in this deluge.”

  He nodded as he handed her a rather large tree branch he’d used as a walking stick on a hike into town that summer. “I know. Hoping the rain will let up. Here—not a staff, but close as I’ve got. Should help steady you on your feet. Good idea. It will just be a moment.”

  He strode to the heavy trunk beside his hearth and took a knee next to it. He unlocked the padlock and heaved open the hefty lid. The hearth’s embers cast a dim, warm light over the contents. The night itself was dark and empty, moonless.

  Perhaps he had one thing he did consider his own—his weapons. First, he drew out the mace, dark and elegant with holy symbols inlaid in gold on the handle—grain, rose, and nail always underneath his hands. Then, he pushed more lambskins out of the way and found the sword and scabbard. Just as he lifted the carrying strap over his shoulder, a voice broke through the calm rushing of the rain.

  “Stop, in the name of Nefrana.”

  Tharomar sucked in a harsh breath. He struggled to squash a wave of anger at the words; it would not help him fight.

  And fight he would.

  The voice belonged to the same Devoted that had been here before. Were these knights or lesser soldiers? They had not identified themselves. Had one of the others mentioned her—or had they returned of their own accord? Could they have been watching him and Jaena? Perhaps he should have listened to her—

  “Put the sword down.”

  Ro slowly lowered the sword back into the trunk and began to straighten as slowly as humanly possible.

  “This mage the one?” said another.

  “Stay away from me,” Jaena snapped. Had they tried to grab her? He hadn’t yet dared to turn. He wanted them to come closer. Just a little closer.

  “Aye, this is her. What’ll we do with this smith then? Lied to us, I think. He’s sheltering her.” Two of them approached, he judged by their footsteps. How many were there? He had only heard two voices.

  “We should take him back. The Masters can—”

  He didn’t let them finish. He snatched the mace from the hearth beside him and spun. He hadn’t even laid eyes on the Devoted yet, but he made a blind swing, not daring to waste a moment of his surprise sizing up the situation.

  He got lucky. The mace collided with the right side of the head of the first with a sickening thud. He felt a pang of nausea. By Nefrana, why had they chosen to return? He didn’t want to kill them.

  But he was going to. He would likely have to kill them, to get her and the brand away. He hadn’t sworn that oath because this would be easy.

  The second Devoted staggered back in shock as the first fell in a splatter of blood.

  Ro circled the mace back up over his head with both arms, gathering momentum as he stepped forward once and swung. The weapon crushed into the second Devoted’s left arm and ribs, sending him flying.

  Hoping that was enough to incapacitate him but perhaps let him survive, Tharomar lurched toward Jaena only to find another Devoted lunging at him instead. He caught a glimpse of her swinging the branch, deftly knocking another Devoted to the ground with a blow to the side of the head. Ah, so the staff hadn’t been just to steady her on her feet.

  Tharomar ducked quickly and dodged as best he could. The knight missed him with whatever weapon had gone by in a blur in the darkness.

  Ro returned the Devoted’s attack with his own, crushing a femur and collapsing the man in the process.

  His luck ran out when a blow pounded his right shoulder, sending him reeling forward and knocking the air out of him. Face in the dirt, he scrambled forward.

  Boots he knew all too well blocked his path as another Devoted behind him fell to the ground with a thud. Feminine boots, one ankle tied poorly because it was swollen to twice the size it should be.

  Whatever she’d done, she’d taken out the Devoted behind him. She stamped the staff on the ground beside the two of them, stirring up a slight dust cloud. Silence fell around them, no noise but the pattering of the rain.

  More slowly now, he rose and straightened. He rubbed his shoulder and scanned the smithy and the night beyond.

  “Do you think that was all of them?” she whispered.

  “Four seems like an odd number. Why return with just one more?”

  “There were six.”

  “Six? You took out three?”

  “Yes.” She nodded as he surveyed the fallen men.

  “Just a traveling merchant, eh?” His eyes had finally adjusted and his head sufficiently cleared to see the competent way she held the branch.

  “Oh, and you’re just a blacksmith?” She narrowed her eyes at him, leaning on the branch with both hands. She was a beautiful sight in the dim ember light, powerful and lithe like a forest spirit, eyes keen and sparkling in their darkness.

  And he was staring. He shook it off and glanced around. The second one he’d hit lay not far away, hands on his thigh, twitching every now and then. That one was only pretending to be out cold. He wanted to get away.

  Or to listen and learn something.

  He held a finger to his lips but couldn’t be sure she saw him in the dim hearth light. He pointed at the suspected Devoted, and then after a moment’s hesitation, he pressed a finger gently to her lips as well. They were warm, soft to the touch.

  And he was a damn idiot, thinking about that at a time like this.

  “Let’s go,” he said quickly. Thankfully, she didn’t demand to know why he stepped over the bodies to grab the sword and mace he had just felled three men with. He didn’t know how many were truly unconscious and how many were pretending, but he did feel confident none of them would be able to follow them right away. He did hope some would survive. He also hoped it would be very, very hard for them to call for help.

  Tharomar muttered a quick blessing, both for their foolish sins and for forgiveness for himself if he’d ended any of them.

  He took her arm over his shoulder and again steered her toward the barn, where his horse Yada lived with several of the other townsfolk’s horses. They made even faster progress with the staff by his side.

  “When are you going to tell me what is really going on?” she whispered. “Where did you get those? What are those symbols?” They reached the barn door, which was closed but not bolted. He heaved the door open. The downpour had relented a bit but not completely.

  “Holy weapons,
blessed of the gods,” he replied as they stumbled inside and he pushed the door shut. One dim lantern had been left burning, luckily. “They were a gift to me from my order when I swore my allegiance and joined them.”

  “Your order?”

  “I actually never claimed to be only a blacksmith, unlike some people,” he said, smiling. He strode to Yada and greeted her gently. “But you can interrogate me endlessly once we’re on the road.”

  “I will be sure to do that.”

  He made short work of loading up the saddle, bags, and weapons as she did her best to gather a few horse provisions and tools.

  He helped her mount first. A footstool was some help, but her ankle still made her too unsteady, so he found his hands on either side of her hips, lifting her onto the patient mare. Her body felt good underneath his hands, reassuring, strong.

  Gods be damned, this was not the time. Get your head on straight, Tharomar Revendel, he chided himself. This woman is on the run with a very heavy burden. She has a lot more important things to worry about, and he would just be another one. Also, thinking about her hips and his hands instead of focusing on getting away from these damned Devoted would just make him sloppy. They did not have room for mistakes.

  Still, clarifying his mind only got harder as he got into the saddle behind her. If only they had two horses, but he drew the line at stealing from the townsfolk. Her body pressed against his, fully of wiry muscle and tense for any new danger.

  He led the horse out into the last of the drizzling rain at a slow walk, jumping down once to shutter up the barn and bar the door. They pulled up their hoods as he eased them down the road toward Anonil and hoped the Devoted who were left conscious would not figure out the direction they were heading.

  “Can we go faster?” she whispered.

  “It will only make it easier for them to hear us. Plus it’s still quite dark.” The mare knew the way well enough in spite of the lack of moonlight, at least. In the night’s darkness, he could see the many intricate braids of her hair, Yada’s mane, and a few feet around them to either side but not much else. He had to rely on hearing for now and hope the clouds would clear. He whispered a prayer and was not sure whether Jaena heard it or if he wanted her to. Nothing about his faith had elicited anything but fear from her. Understandable, but also saddening.