“I can think of a few ways,” Cole said with a grin. “Would be a fine way to go down. But they’re stupid, and so they land themselves worse than they were.”
The thin slave’s lip curled derisively. “Says the overseer now pulling draft.”
Cole moved fast, stomping on the slave’s foot as he caught the wrist chain and snapped it downward, yanking the slave’s face into his upswung knee.
“Stop!” Luca tugged Cole back.
“What’s all that?” called an overseer from the front as the line split around the attack.
Luca ducked his head, willing them to move on, his hand still on Cole’s arm. The other slave was stunned quiet, blinking and probing the side of his face. Then the tilted wagon shifted and the overseer turned back, and they were forgotten.
“You can’t!” Luca whispered furiously. “You can’t do that or they’ll come for you.”
“Let them,” Cole growled, but he turned away from the slave, who had shrunk to the end of his chain.
The wagons began to move again, and the line started forward. The thin slave limped but kept his muttered threats quiet enough to be ignored.
Andrew moved close to Luca, keeping a wary eye on the others. “I’m not ever going to be free,” he whispered, “but please, couldn’t you purchase me too?”
Luca looked at him, uncomfortably helpless. He should have expected this. “I don’t know. I don’t have any money of my own, and Jarrick was none too pleased about my bargaining for Cole...”
“Please! Don’t let me go to the mines or be chained to an oar. Please, won’t you do it?”
Luca’s heart sank. Andrew had been kind to him when he had first come to Alham. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, guilt pricking him. What he could do might not be much, but he had to give Andrew some hope.
When they curled up for sleep that night, grouped tightly for warmth, Andrew wriggled close to Luca—whether to influence him by lending body heat in the cold night or to reassure himself of Luca’s thin promise, Luca couldn’t guess.
But the nights were not so cold now, and the mornings no longer showed frost on the grass. The protected waters of the Wakari Coast mitigated winter. The scent of the sea returned on the warmer breeze, and Luca’s pulse began to quicken as he thought of the border, freedom and home.
And then one evening, as the wagons came to a heavy halt, Trader Matteo waved for an overseer to join him as he approached Luca’s line. Jarrick was already coming for his nightly talk with Luca.
“Congratulations, Luca,” Matteo said. “That checkpoint this afternoon marked the end of Chrenada’s law. If your brother keeps his word, you’re a freeman now.”
“Yes,” Jarrick put in. “Release him!”
Matteo nodded to the overseer, who blinked in silent surprise and ran the chains out of the cuff rings. “We don’t travel with a full smithy, of course,” Matteo said, “so we can’t do anything about the cuffs until we reach my stable. But for our purposes, you’re a free man, Luca.”
“Thank you,” Luca said automatically. And then he straightened tiredly and looked at the trader. “I’ll be joining my brother in the caravan, then?”
“It will be a tight squeeze, the three of us freemen. I won’t even charge you the accommodation. Consider it my gift to a very fortunate man.” He motioned for Luca to step out of the line.
Andrew made a quick, hesitant motion as if to catch Luca’s arm as he passed. “Luca...”
“Watch your manners,” warned Matteo. “You should know more than to address a freeman by name. Is there anything else you need, Roald—either of you?” He shifted his eyes from Jarrick to Luca. “Your slaves will be remaining in the line, of course?” He indicated Cole.
“He will work,” Luca answered flatly. “Could I borrow him for a few moments tonight?”
Matteo shrugged and nodded to the overseer. “Just see he’s back for his supper.”
“He’ll have it.” Luca avoided Andrew’s searching, anxious eyes and led Cole with Jarrick a short distance from the line. His back to the trader and overseers, he folded his arms against his torso and hugged himself.
Free! It was something he’d given up even dreaming of, something he had surrendered forever somewhere on the Faln Plateau. He gulped the evening air, stinging with the faint tang of salt. Free!
When he paused, Cole circled to face him. “Master.”
It was awkward to hear such words addressed to him. It couldn’t be possible that he could leap from chained slave, shuffling out of the overseers’ way, to receiving the obeisance of another in so short a span.
“Cole,” he said, “they’ll use you as draft labor tomorrow or the next day.”
Cole’s shoulders tightened.
“I know. I know what you fear.” Luca licked his lips. “It’s justified. They will be looking for excuses.”
Cole’s shoulders rose another half-inch and his jaw clenched.
“You have to hold yourself, Cole. Keep your head, keep your temper, and endure it. Make it through the day without giving them reason, and you’ll walk away in Ivat.”
Cole nodded. “I will try, master.”
“Trying is not enough. Clench your fists, grit your teeth, think of pressure bearing down on a stone, whatever it takes—but keep your head.”
“Yes, master.”
Jarrick said, “Cole, get back to the line. Let’s not start with any jealousy over privileges.”
“Yes, my lord.” Cole started back.
“Do you think that will be enough? Just a word of warning?” Jarrick asked.
Luca looked after the slave. “It will have to be.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the whip would improve him.”
“A whip improves no one,” Luca answered in a voice which surprised himself. “It may give the temporary strength or compliance of fear, but it cannot make him truly stronger or more willing.”
Jarrick turned to face Luca, looking as if he would speak. He hesitated and then reached suddenly to embrace him. “Luca,” he said softly, “I’m sorry. I’m so glad you’re here again.”
Luca hugged him in return. “Thank you for looking for me.”
“Come on. The meals are awful, but maybe better than what you’ve been eating.”
Luca was hungry, and there would be time later to mention Andrew. For the moment, he was for the first time in years in possession of his full name and capable of taking his own supper.
ARIANA AND HER FATHER kept the door to the rear workroom closed, in case of visitors to the White Mage’s office, and after Ariana made a quick trip home for supplies, they spent the night with Tamaryl’s still form. He was recovering, Hazelrig reported as he probed magically, but he had not yet awoken. “He’s utterly exhausted. Drained completely. It will be some time before he has even a pitiful strength. But it is only exhaustion, and he should recover.”
Still, Ariana could not forget the horrific image of Tamaryl bleeding from ears, nose, eyes. As the first day passed without any motion from him, she became more worried.
He had helped to design the shield; he’d known what it would do to him. As powerful as he was, she didn’t think he was so arrogant as to believe that he could pass unharmed, and it had seemed he expected to be in the Ryuven world forever. What had brought him back?
Her father’s implication pressed at her, and Ariana squirmed mentally. She did not want to be the cause of his injuries...
She pushed the thought from her mind, walking briskly through the marketplace.
She stepped into the bookbinding shop and nodded a greeting to Vaya, Ranne’s mother, who gave her a friendly wave in return. Ariana went directly to the supply room.
Ranne was there, binding a book. She stopped tapping a block of pages into place and glanced up as Ariana entered. “Oh—Ariana! What’s wrong?”
Ariana hesitated. “Wrong?”
Ranne set the half-bound book down. “Don’t pretend, not here. Did something go wrong at the Wheel? Are yo
u feeling ill again from the Ryuven world? Did you have a fight with your illicit love?”
Ariana startled. “I—illicit love?”
Ranne smiled. “That was just to get you to talk.” She took Ariana’s arms, concerned again. “So what is it?”
All Ariana’s words froze up like ice piling in the river. She had wanted to tell Ranne, wanted to share everything and plead for something, she couldn’t even say what—or anything.
Ranne tipped her head to the side. “Ariana?”
Ariana couldn’t tell her, couldn’t say that a Ryuven was hiding in the Wheel itself, that he was a friend of many years, that he had kissed her. That she had lost her magic, started to regain it, and might have burned it all away to save a Ryuven.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, I just... It’s too much. I know the shield’s raised again and...” She wanted to say she had argued with Becknam and was ashamed of her emotional outburst, but Ranne might ask what they had argued about, and anyway a fight sounded too much like they were sweethearts instead of friends.
There was too much to say, and so she couldn’t say any of it.
Ariana sighed. “Can I just stay here for a while? Watch you bind books?”
Ranne gave her a squeeze. “Of course you can. Pull up a stool, and I’ll put you to work hammering folds or something.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SHIANAN WAS ROUNDING a crowded corner when suddenly the men before him drew themselves to the side and straightened or bowed. Shianan just had time to step aside as Prince Soren came into view. Shianan bowed.
But the prince slowed as he passed. “How did your apology fare, commander?” came a low question.
“I have not yet ventured,” admitted Shianan.
“Delay will win you nothing,” Soren warned, and then he was gone.
Some hours later, a knock sounded at Shianan’s office door. Outside was a slave shielding a wrapped bouquet of flowers in full bloom. “From the hothouse,” reported the slave through chattering teeth, taking his cloak from about them and pulling it over his shoulders. “I was told to deliver them to your lordship.”
Shianan looked them over. Sunshine on flowers. Perhaps she would hear his apologetic explanation.
He set aside the sheaf of papers which awaited his approval and eyed the flowers. He wrapped them in a spare tunic and started for the Wheel.
ARIANA SLIPPED INSIDE her father’s office and nudged the door closed behind her. “How is he?”
“There has been no real change, though I think he’s breathing more easily.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t have imagined a Ryuven would take so long to heal, but he seems to be steadily improving. I suppose he’ll wake when he can.”
Ariana set down the luncheon tray and passed to the rearmost room where Tamaryl, lying still on the table, was padded with blankets smuggled from home. He would move occasionally now, a muscle twitching as fibers rejoined or his torso shifting as he cleared healing lungs, but he had not regained consciousness. It was frightening. “He will wake, won’t he?”
“That he is alive at all is a miracle. If he has not died yet, I think we should believe that he will eventually wake.” Her father put an arm around her shoulders and smiled. “Be patient, my girl. Now, come away from the table.” He gestured to the open space.
Ariana did, not understanding.
“Show me a little colored light.”
Ariana opened her fingers, hesitated, quested for magic and immediately flinched. She could sense the magic just out of reach, almost see it hanging in the air. But it was beyond her.
Her father put his hand atop hers, stilling her attempt. “What did you do for him?”
She thought it was a rebuke for risking her magic. She looked back at the table. “I had to,” she defended, justifying the loss to him and herself. “Even though I knew it was dangerous. He was dying.”
“And did you hesitate?”
Ariana chewed her lip, and he let her work through her thoughts. “It was different,” she said at last. “When I was practicing with you or Mage Parma, I was afraid of failure.”
He nodded.
“But just then, I was afraid of the consequences of failure. If I didn’t give him magic, Tamaryl would die. So I couldn’t hesitate, I had to put my hand in the flame.” She looked at her father. “You’re going to tell me that I thought about what I wanted to do instead of what I was afraid of not doing.”
He raised one shoulder in smug acknowledgment. “Why should I repeat what you’ve just said?”
Ariana made a face. “You sound like her.”
He nodded toward her hand. “The light.”
Ariana looked down at her hand and recalled that she had channeled an unreal torrent of pure energy through her body. It had been foolish, it had been dangerous, it had been thrilling, and her father was beside her to catch her if she fell into the torrent again. She brought up her hand and watched a spiral of light form, shining pink and white, and spin over her palm.
She stared, her mouth slightly open, delighting in the simple trick of light.
Her father clapped his hands once and laughed. “I knew it!”
Ariana let the light dissolve and then she sank onto a stool and took a long, relieved breath. “But what if I had tried to help him and failed? If Tamaryl had died? How could I bear that?”
Her father smiled that smug, knowing White Mage’s expression. “If you had tried and failed, then it would have been exactly as if you had not tried. Tamaryl would have died.” He bent close to her and whispered, “Exactly as if you had not been here at all.”
Ariana struggled to grasp his words. “You’re saying—are you saying I couldn’t have made it any worse? Or that not trying would be like not even being here?”
He kissed her forehead and straightened. “I’m going to go make—”
A ragged breath from the table interrupted him and their eyes focused on the Ryuven. Tamaryl’s throat worked, as if something had caught in it, and he dragged air into his lungs. “Rrrru...”
“He’s talking!” Ariana gasped.
“It’s not necessarily speech,” her father cautioned. “It may be only another spasm.”
Tamaryl’s eyes blinked suddenly open, his face tensing in stark contrast to the loose expression of his long sleep. His lips jerked.
They leaned over him, uncertain of how to help him. He stared unseeingly upward, his face twisting as if in fear or pain. “Mm...”
“We’re here, Tam,” Ariana told him desperately. “It’s all right, we’re here.”
His fingers worked and then, as if he’d exhausted his meager strength, he fell still again.
Hazelrig placed a hand on his chest, listened for a moment, and then gently smoothed the bent fingers. “He’s fine; he’s just away again. He’ll return to us.” He hesitated. “Still... Still, I think he could use another dose of jackwort.”
Ariana nodded. Tamaryl’s expression, brief as it was, had been distressed.
Neither of them were trained healers, but a mage educated for battle had to know at least a smattering of medicine. Hazelrig turned to the shelf and took the jar, frowning as he lifted it. He shook it and then removed the lid to glance inside. “There’s not much here, perhaps half a ration. Did you give him some last night?”
“I did, but I thought you had another supply.”
“No, that was all.” He shook out the dried leaves into a shallow wooden dish beside Tamaryl. “I’ll borrow some from Elysia.”
“Won’t she ask why you need it?”
“No one questions a man of middle years wanting an anti-inflammatory herb in winter,” he replied with a smile. “Why do you think I had only a small stock left?” He swung his white outer robe over his shoulders and started for the door. “Give him what we have. I won’t be long.”
“Take your soup,” she called. “It’s still warm.”
“Not anymore,” he answered from the front room. “Put them on the athanor and I’ll have it when I
return.”
Ariana was already pulverizing the jackwort. The soup could wait a moment. When the leaves were evenly smashed, she poured oil over them. Fresh jackwort was more effective and quicker to act, but it was difficult to find in winter. Only a few herbalists kept it growing in their protected shelters, and most had to make due with cheaper dried leaves.
She froze at the knock. Who—but anyone might knock at the White Mage’s door. If she waited a moment, he would go away.
But then she heard the latch shift. “Mage Hazelrig?” called a familiar voice. “Are you here?”
The office door wasn’t locked! Ariana rushed to the front room, nearly slamming the workroom door behind her before he could see the bundled Ryuven. “Shianan!”
He looked surprised, and he took a few steps into the office. “I went to yours—then I came here, because you weren’t—well, obviously, you weren’t there, and—I thought your father might know where I could find you.”
“And do you always make a habit of entering where you haven’t been admitted?” she demanded, tense with worry at Tam’s near exposure.
His face fell. “I thought perhaps—if he was in the rearmost room... I would not have come inside without...”
She crossed her arms, recalling their last meeting. Things were unsaid and she did not want to talk with him, not with Tamaryl lying unconscious just behind her, when she had not explained her weakness, when he could not be here.
Shianan seemed to wilt. “I only meant to ask where I could find you.”
“And what was so urgent?” She watched him glance at the bundle in his arm, his expression uncertain. He picked at the cloth wrapping—was that a tunic? Ariana let an antagonistic note creep into her voice. “You brought your laundry?”
His jaw tightened. “No, my lady mage, I did not.” He hesitated, his eyes averted. “I’m sorry,” he muttered finally. “I have made a mistake.”
Even angry and preoccupied as she was, it upset her that they faced each other so contrarily. Things might have been different without the pressing presence of Tamaryl, half-dead in the room behind her, if she were certain he had not nearly killed himself only to reach her... Shianan could not stay.
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