Ariana sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
She had tried to light the candle previously, so they ignored that for now. Mage Parma started with one of the simplest of tasks. She opened the book and flipped some of the pages, leaving a fan of onion-skin paper. “Rustle the pages,” she said simply.
Ariana should have been able to do this with a flick of her finger, hardly looking at the book. Instead, she fixed her eyes on it and concentrated, stretching her fingers wide and cutting horizontally through the air, like scooping the top layer from a cake.
The onion-skin papers did not move. Ariana strained, her eyes aching with the effort, and imagined herself pulling the papers back. She closed her eyes, trying to visualize the magic, but there was only dark.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Keep trying.”
Ariana squeezed her eyes shut, though that had not helped her in years, and imagined she pushed and pulled at the open book. Not so much as a glimmer of magic lit her dark sight. “Mage Parma, I—”
A pillar of white-hot fire leapt up beside her, and Ariana flinched backward, dropping her tentative reach for the book. She gave a little cry as she fell over her chair. She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling, the table, Mage Parma’s concerned face. No fire.
“Your magic,” Ariana gasped.
Mage Parma nodded, closing her hand and snuffing out the energy couched there. “So you really can sense it.”
Ariana caught her breath and thought about what she had said. “Yes, I could see your magic. But not mine.”
“But it means you have not become insensitive to magic. You can sense it still, if it’s powerful and close. The question is, why not when it is small?”
“Because I’ve burned it out,” Ariana completed. “That’s logical.”
“If you persist in this line, I shall have to begin rolling my eyes,” Mage Parma said dryly. “Aren’t you prepared to do hard work here in the Wheel? This is it.”
Chastened, Ariana nodded. “All right.”
Ariana closed her eyes, and Elysia Parma flicked magic about the room in stronger or weaker bolts for Ariana to identify. It was difficult, and frustrating in its difficulty; Ariana should have been able to point out the various energies like brightly colored balls sailing through the air, but it felt more like watching for mice in tall grass at twilight. When at last Elysia called for a break, Ariana was exhausted and perspiring despite having stayed still in her chair.
“I don’t know,” she said, rubbing her face. “I feel like I’m not making any progress. Is this worth the effort?”
Elysia Parma raised a critical eyebrow. “This is exactly why I was sure to take data instead of letting you rely upon your tired emotions,” she said with kind firmness. She held up her pages of notes, full of tally marks and occasional lines of commentary. “In the beginning, you could recognize only the strongest energy, and you often missed those which weren’t near the last one you’d sensed. But by the end, you were catching them regardless of location, and many of the smaller ones as well.”
“Really?” Ariana was grateful for her reassuring tally marks. “I didn’t feel at all as if I was improving.”
“Weariness does that,” the Silver Mage said.
“But I still can’t use—”
“Ariana Hazelrig, do not complete that sentence. Are you better than you were this morning?”
Ariana nodded.
“Will you return tomorrow to improve again?”
She nodded again, a little afraid to do otherwise.
“Good.” Elysia Parma leaned over the table. “The uneducated think magic is all about words of power and secret phrases which will unlock the universe. We know that is foolishness—mostly. Magic is a science, not secret phrases. But we also know that words are powerful with their own sort of magic, and they influence not the universe, but our perceptions of it, and thereby our actions and even our abilities.”
“You’re saying if I can’t recover my magic, it’s because I said I couldn’t?”
“It’s not so simple as that. I’m saying if you say you can’t recover your magic, you prepare yourself to accept failure, and you resist expending as much energy on what you believe to be a futile endeavor.”
Ariana thought about this for a moment before she nodded. “And that makes failure more likely.”
Elysia Parma stood. “Good work today, Black Mage.”
Ariana forced a weary smile. “I’ll come back tomorrow. And tonight?”
“Rest tonight. No games to test yourself! Give yourself a chance to recover. Remember how hard magic is physically, and you were a long time away from practicing even without considering the extraordinary effects of the Ryuven atmosphere. Take a rest.”
“You really think I can just rest and it will come back?”
For answer, Mage Parma called a pillar of power into her hand, and Ariana flinched away before she could stop herself.
“You’re afraid,” Mage Parma said gently. “Understandably—but afraid.” She turned back to the table and lit the candle with a gesture. Her hand hovered near the flame. “If I want to pass my hand through the fire, how should I do it?”
“Just push it through,” Ariana answered. “Straight through.”
Mage Parma nodded. “And what happens if I hesitate? Start, stop, hold back?”
“You’ll be burned.”
“And then it will be that much more difficult for me to attempt it properly the next time. Or, in the imprecision of desperation, I might shove my hand into the wick or upset the candle.” Mage Parma snapped out the flame. “That is why I don’t want you practicing on your own, and not just for the obvious concerns of safety. Let’s take this at a measured pace, and let’s not risk letting you burn yourself.”
Ariana caught her breath. “You think—you think it could get worse.”
And with magic, she did not risk a singed finger. Uncontrolled magic, as every carefully supervised apprentice knew, could kill.
For the first time she could remember, Ariana saw Mage Parma turn away from a question. “We don’t know enough to know that.”
Ariana made herself take another breath, long and slow. “But you think it can get better.”
This time Mage Parma smiled. “We have already seen it get better.”
Ariana felt a little encouraged as she left. She was still powerless, still a fraud within the Circle, but she was not entirely senseless.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SOMEONE MOVED BESIDE Luca, and he flinched. But it was Jarrick, pacing him in the mud and rain. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Your face is bleeding. And—and...”
Luca shook his head. “I’ll be all right.”
Jarrick was clearly torn. “Are you—I’m going to go see Matteo. I’ll be back.”
The slaves at the rear of the wagon pushed with them, all efforts renewed at the sight of the concerted punishment available, and the caravan moved up the hill once more. Luca’s legs trembled with strain, and the gap between the second and third wagon grew larger. The overseer barked a warning and struck Andrew with the switch.
Please, sweet Holy One, give us strength, prayed Luca. His back hurt with the welts, and inches before his eyes he saw the torn shirt and bloody stripes from the whip. Let us make it.
They did, somehow, and crested the hill. The overseer directed them to the side of the road and they stumbled to a halt. Andrew was wheezing with effort and hunched with fresh blows, and the two front slaves hung on their crossbar. Luca dropped to the road but found the chains were shorter than those of Renner’s cart, and he could not quite sit but had to kneel.
He was shaking with fatigue. Surely Matteo would keep his word about exchanging draft slaves.
“What was that?” asked a breathless voice. “What gave you to think I wanted your help?” The big slave looked over his shoulder. “Did you really—did you really buy me? How?”
Luca nodded. “I
am a slave only until we cross the border,” he panted. “My brother’s taking me home. Once I am a freeman again, I have the rights of a freeman.” He smiled tiredly at the slave’s puzzled expression. “I know it sounds farfetched and confusing, but the end is, you’re now with the Roald house.”
“And so you are my new master now?”
“Or my brother, technically.” Luca shifted his aching legs, cold mud squelching around his knees. “What’s your name?”
“Cole.” The slave hesitated. “That is, Cole, master.”
Luca nearly laughed, but for his physical and emotional exhaustion. “I am on my knees in the mud and in chains myself.”
Andrew was staring. “You’ll be a freeman?” he asked in a soft, wondrous tone.
Luca felt a quick wash of sympathy. “Yes, I—”
Luca’s words were cut short by the overseer’s arrival. He unchained them curtly and motioned to the rear of the wagon. The thin slave shrank from Cole as he moved away, but Cole ignored him. Perhaps he was too stunned by his change in fortune to waste thought on the other slave.
“Luca.” Jarrick was beside their wagon. “Come back with me.”
“But during the day—”
“I’ve just paid Trader Matteo for your new slave, so he will not argue over what we do now. And you’re bleeding. Come with me.”
Luca’s tight shoulders slipped. “Thanks, Jarrick.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Cole, too.”
Jarrick’s wagon, shared with Matteo, featured an oilskin cover and blankets within. Luca climbed inside and began to shed his sodden clothes, scraping his fresh welts. Jarrick caught his breath. “Luca...”
Luca shook his head. “I’ve had worse.”
“Let me find you some oil or salve. Surely there’s something here.”
“For him, too.” Luca beckoned to Cole, who waited at the tail of the wagon. “Come inside and take a blanket.”
The oil Jarrick located was not so efficiently numbing as the salve Shianan had once used, but it helped. Luca rubbed it into his shoulders, keeping his eyes away from Jarrick’s unhappy stare.
“Luca,” Jarrick ventured finally, “I didn’t know you were pulling today.”
“One of the overseers. There was no chance to argue.” He nodded toward Cole. “Take off what’s left of that and let’s see the damage.”
Cole was reluctant. “I can see to it myself, master. There’s no need to trouble yourself.” The words seemed awkward in his mouth.
Luca rubbed oil gingerly into the swelling cut on his face, his arm shaking. “It will be more trouble if you’re not fit enough to keep the trader happy.”
Cole backed against the wall and peeled his wet shirt off, revealing the bloody weal on his abdomen.
Luca frowned. “Are you meaning to hide something from me?”
Cole’s eyes shifted, confirming Luca’s suspicion. Jarrick looked from Luca to Cole and back, shaking his head. “Flames, Luca, what have you done?”
Luca blew out his breath. “You’d best let us see.”
The slave rotated in the narrow wagon, exposing his back to the watery light. The four torn stripes stood out clearly among the crisscrossing bruised welts of the switch, but beneath those was a mass of half-healed wounds and faded bruising, and fainter scars extended over his ribs and arms. He’d been no stranger to punishment even before recent beatings.
Jarrick sighed a curse. “What have you done, Luca? I’ve just paid twice or thrice what anyone should for a slave who fights his work, fights other slaves, fights his masters...”
Luca ignored his brother and spoke to Cole. “I know how it is to be judged on what others have said and done. I was a Furmelle slave. Remember, I’ve seen you work as no master has.” He looked at Jarrick. “He was honest in the wagon shafts, pulling his share or more. He’s been a favorite target since he came, I’ve seen it. He didn’t deserve all he took today. I would like to hear his own explanation.”
Cole’s head bobbed unhappily. “I have been a draft slave and then an overseer, now draft again,” he confirmed. He took a breath and spoke more rapidly. “But I do mind punishment, no matter what they may tell—I’m as eager to avoid it as any reasonable man. But it takes me, and I just can’t... My blood runs black.” He looked at Luca. “The one beside me today, he drew a single cart in Orcan’s caravan. It stuck in the mud.”
“Wait,” said Jarrick. “I remember you. In Alham.”
Cole looked at Jarrick. “Were you the merchant master then? Orcan said if I didn’t have it out of the mud, he’d loosen both our hides, and that was no idle threat. When it didn’t come free, I—I panicked.” He shrugged.
“Panicked? You had that man screaming on the ground.”
“To stave off worse.” Cole glanced away, resentment underlying his miserable expression. “And then you came, and you criticized Orcan.”
Trader Matteo’s comment returned to Luca. “Orcan said you’d humiliated him before a client.”
Cole nodded. “Yes, master. I tried to avoid a beating and so earned it.” Something dark colored his voice. “It’s a sick and bloody game we can’t win, so why play?”
Jarrick looked as if he wanted to answer, but he glanced at Luca and kept silent.
Luca had thought of trying to flee Ande, before he’d learned to give up all hope of escape. “And today?”
“And today, on the hill—no matter how I pulled, and when he said—I only saw red. He’s why I’m here now, and...” He flattened his mouth and ground out, “Thank you, master, for sparing me.”
Luca shook his head. “Those cuts need oil.”
Cole took the small bottle and looked toward Jarrick. “When the wagon was stuck in Alham, you went to that puny draft and spoke to him. Only criticism for me.” Cole checked himself. “Beg pardon, my lord. It’s only—I wondered for hours, while I waited for Orcan to come... I suppose as something to distract myself. But I wondered why you had a word for him when he was at fault.”
Jarrick shook his head. “He had black hair.” He crossed his arms, his eyes on the rain outside. “I had to look.”
Luca went hollow as he stared at his brother. The herbal scent of the oil filled the wagon. Luca impulsively leaned forward and embraced his brother. “Thank you, Jarrick,” he said hoarsely. “For being there today. I did not even look for you—I knew you would come.”
THERE WAS A SHOUT FROM outside and then the wagon shifted, rumbling forward. Luca glanced around. “I should go—”
“No. Stay here.”
“But Trader Matteo—and the ones pulling this wagon...”
“I told you Trader Matteo will not concern himself with us today. As for the road, it is a long downhill slope here, and you will not trouble the draft slaves too much if you stay. If you insist on worrying, I’ll step out and walk myself.”
“But—”
“But you’ll stay. You need rest, or haven’t you seen yourself lately?” Jarrick ventured a half-smile.
“I’ll go, masters.” Cole looked anxious to be away from the brothers. Jarrick nodded, glad to be free of him as well, and he eased over the wagon’s tail and started away.
Jarrick looked after him a moment, wondering whether he’d made a mistake in supporting Luca’s desperate rescue. Being inches from a flogging would affect anyone, of course, but he could not afford to spend so much on an impulsive purchase, especially one which might be near worthless in the end.
Still, he could hardly have refused. He looked at his brother. He would find it difficult to refuse Luca anything for a long time. He wondered how that would affect their future.
Luca had changed, as much as their father or anyone. He was no longer the annoyed and annoying younger brother, watching his elders from a distance and complaining occasionally over his work. He was harder now, quiet, with an expression that expected nothing of life. Aside from that initial heated argument when he awoke in the Kalen baths, Luca had been quiet, invisible, submissive—a slave. When for the first
time again he’d shown vitality, Jarrick had to act on it.
If buying a worthless slave restored his brother’s trust, it was cheap at twice the price.
“You can stay, Luca. You don’t have to go.”
Luca shook his head. “It isn’t that I’d rather not stay.” He sighed and shifted his shoulders. “But if I don’t walk loose tonight the morning will see me hardly able to move. Even if I’m not pulling, they’ll switch the line for lagging.”
How straightforwardly he said it—not as if it held the horror for him as it did for Jarrick, and not as if he meant to shock or rebuke Jarrick with it. It was merely fact, a fixture in his life, no more shocking than tides to a sailor.
No, he would not be able to refuse much to Luca. Not for a long, long time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“GOT ANOTHER ONE.” CAPTAIN Torg dropped the report on Shianan’s desk. “Four killed, planting seed taken.”
Shianan reached for the report but did not look at it. “To the northwest again? Do we know of any established bandits there?”
“Due west this time, too far to be the same bandits on foot. Survivors insist the raiders were Ryuven.” Torg delivered the news levelly, though frustration showed in his pinched mouth. “But Ryuven can’t come here, not with the shield again.”
“Exactly. So why would these people lie?”
Torg scratched his beard. “I don’t pretend to understand the magic of it, but couldn’t the shield work both ways? With the shield, the Ryuven can’t come—but they can’t leave, either. Maybe there were some who were trapped in our world?”
“It’s possible. But in multiple places?”
“I suppose we wait to hear if anyone spots them. They can’t fly too much without being seen, so that will slow their travel.”
“True. But if they’re trapped here, why take the seed? Why not something more, I don’t know, immediately useful, like ordinary robbers?”
“They’re doing what they know,” Torg suggested. “But if they’ve got nowhere to go, we just wait until we have a lead on them and then pick them out like lice. Now, you want to hear what fourth squad will be drilling again?”
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