by R. K. Thorne
Mage Slave
The Enslaved Chronicles: Book 1
R. K. Thorne
Iron Antler Books
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
1. The Mission
2. A Way In, A Way Out
3. The Balcony of the Sky Kings
4. Introductions and Observations
5. Threats
6. The Pursuit of Magic
7. Confessions
8. Devotion
9. Healing
10. Old Secrets
11. New Secrets
12. Star Mage
13. Rescue
14. Scars
15. Boundaries
16. Balance
Afterword
About the Author
Copyright © 2016 by R. K. Thorne
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Elizabeth Nover, Razor Sharp Editing
Cover designed by Damonza
Created with Vellum
For Mr. Pugliano, who pushed me and believed in me more than I believed in myself. And for my husband, who still does.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Elizabeth Nover of Razor Sharp Editing, for helping me to see (and write) this book more clearly.
Thanks to my beta readers, Vanessa Kristoff and Jeff Hoskinson, whose valuable feedback gave me courage while also making this book far better.
And last but not least, thanks so much to my mom and dad for telling me I could do anything I put my mind to so many times. I listened. To all my family and friends, I appreciate your unwavering stability and support.
1
The Mission
“That’s it. Lift it a little higher, and you’ll be free,” Miara whispered to the raven.
“What are you doing?” The raven lifted the latch and burst through the cage door just as the Mistress arrived.
The truth would get her beaten, but as a slave, she couldn’t lie. So Miara said nothing. She watched silently as the raven circled up, heading toward a high window. If only it were that easy. Miara could change form and charm animals, summon plants and hear the thoughts of men. She could grow wings and take to the sky whenever she pleased. But at the edge of the hold’s lands, she’d be thrown back, kept forever a slave. She knew; she’d tried many times before. She’d looked for a hole, any chinks in her enchantment’s armor. There were none.
“I’ll just get another bird.” The Mistress rolled her eyes as she strode to the dais. “Don’t think I don’t notice your petty little rebellions. They accomplish nothing. Show her.” She jutted her chin at a guard by the door, who took a bow from his back, notched an arrow, and dropped the bird with one shot.
Miara winced and turned her eyes away. She could feel it was not quite dead yet, but healing it was probably one rebellion too many for the moment.
“You are equally expendable.” The older woman stopped and folded her arms across her chest, regarding Miara. Her dark hair fell in carefully styled soft curls on a blue velvet gown, the picture of a lady. Miara knew better. “I’ve summoned you because Dekana is dead,” the Mistress said. She paused for a moment to appreciate the color draining from Miara’s face. “Her tasks fall to you now.”
Miara’s throat tightened. Don’t let it show, she thought. Don’t let it. Dekana had been a spy for the Masters, just as Miara was. What had happened? And if Dekana had failed, why would they think that Miara could succeed? She was half the spy Dekana had been.
The Mistress took the mage-knots from the nearby table and approached, the rope of solid bronze catching the room’s faint firelight. She and the other Masters didn’t deserve such power, crafted by an air mage’s own hand sometime back in the Dark Days. Each time she saw them, she wondered if the poor bastard had been willing or coerced. It was either the greatest betrayal or the greatest tragedy her people had ever known.
“What happened to Dekana?” Miara asked as evenly as she could, as the Mistress yanked the neck of her tunic aside to expose the always-raw brand on her shoulder.
“That is none of your concern.” Her eyelid twitched. She did not want Miara to know, did she? “You need only think about the task at hand.” And with that, she pressed the cold bronze against the brand on Miara’s right shoulder.
Two decades ago, their brand had seared its pain into her shoulder for the first time, burning its curse into her flesh and leaving her with a compulsion to do their bidding. It could not heal. It festered away, changing from a fresh burn to a scab, from a gash to a welt. She could hardly remember a time without it. She had been only five when her mother had betrayed her and her father to the Devoted, whose knights had brought them here. Usually, she slept on her left side and tried not to think about it.
Each time they gave her a mission, though, her brand burned as hot as the very first time. Then pain shattered her thoughts, slicing along her collarbone, down her arm, across her back.
“Go to Akaria,” the Mistress said. Her voice was a thousand demons echoing inside Miara’s skull. “Find the mountain hold of Estun, where the monarchy of Akaria hides from our might. Find their oldest son, Prince Aven Lanuken. Kidnap him, and bring him back to us. Alive. Let no one know a mage or anyone from Kavanar is involved.”
The Mistress lifted the mage-knots away, and just like that, Miara’s agony was over.
Stars and yellow splotches danced before Miara’s eyes, and she swayed as though she might fall to the marble. No, she thought. No. She forced herself steady, to reach out with her mind for anything nearby to regain her strength. But with the raven gone, there was nothing alive in this hellish place, only cold marble blackness. An earth mage could have thrived here on the energy locked in the stone, but she was a creature mage. She needed living, breathing energies, and the Mistress and her guards were sadly off-limits. Another breath, and thankfully, the stars faded. Another, and she felt like herself again.
The Mistress had seated herself on her pseudo-throne behind the banquet table and was eating a grape. Miara discovered that she was on her knees. Her body ached. She could feel the Mistress’s orders taking root, a new craving planted inside her, the seedling of a dark vine sprouting around her heart.
Kidnap a prince. She had never kidnapped someone before. Eavesdropping on the king or his advisers, sure, and the occasional theft from a noble. She had yet to go on a mission where the mark hadn’t proved to be corrupt, if not downright evil, so she had never lost much sleep over her activities, but… could anyone really deserve to be kidnapped?
“Do you have any questions?” the Mistress asked.
Yes, she thought. But you can’t answer that one. “If Dekana could not—”
“That does not matter.” Again, the eye twitch. This is not how Dekana died, Miara thought. But she would like for me to believe it is.
“I have never kidnapped someone, or even stolen anything larger than a book—”
“And that is not a question.”
“When must I begin?” she asked, trying and failing to hide the irritation in her voice. She knew to ask this from experience. If she didn’t, her cursed bond would drive her mad with an irrational need to rush off, prepared or not.
“Take time to prepare and gather what you need to be effective, but no more. Master Daes has wagered you are more than capable of this task. Your precocious nature has quite caught his attention. You wouldn�
��t want to let him down.” Her eye twitched again.
The Dark Master. Daes was his real name. He was the only one bold enough to let the mage slaves know his name. Why would he wager on her? She did not want his attention. But fear of him would not help her now—she needed to focus. Was there anything else she needed to know? Anything she needed to get the Mistress to amend to the orders she’d just received?
“Do I need to bring him back by a certain day? I can be quick or quiet, but not both.”
“Err on the side of stealth. No one must know that we are the ones who have him, and you must not be caught. But if you have not returned in one turning of the moon, we will send others to… assist you. Any other questions?”
Miara shook her head. She had many questions, but none for the Mistress.
“So be it,” said the Mistress with a curt nod. “Go. Do not disappoint us.”
Miara turned and left. Her horse Kres waited outside. They headed for the library, which would hopefully ease some of her already-mounting desire to be gone, to throw caution to the wind and ride full gallop for Akaria. She could not go unprepared, she reminded herself. The Mistress had commanded. The tension that had intensified at the sight of her horse eased.
As Kres led the way, her eye caught on a fallen branch from a large oak tree against the wall of the dormitory building. She whispered a bit of energy across the wind to it, and her eyes lingered to see the first buds. Leaves of a rosebush broke from beneath the bark, and fragile tendrils of roots reached down into the earth. Her blooms would be bloodred; they always were.
“It’s high time we found a suitable wife for you, Aven.”
“Suitable, yes. Excellent choice of words, Mother,” he replied. Eyes closed, Aven took a deep breath of the crisp fall air and savored the sunlight on his face. Inside, the drafts that rattled through the stony corridors would be colder than the wind out here. This terrace was his favorite spot, a shrine of sunlight carved out of the side of the mountain.
“If you never meet this woman, how will you know if she’s suitable?” He opened his eyes to see her frowning, arms folded. The sunlight shone so brightly on her golden hair, his eyes ached.
“I could meet many more if I could leave Estun.” He examined the leaves on the cherry tree as if their gradual change to yellow was terribly interesting. He didn’t mind going to meet this newly arrived princess, although he did dread the awkwardness that was sure to follow. But did he have to leave the sunlight? Inside, there’d be only torches and hearth fires, and not enough of them to frighten the goose bumps away. This terrace was his refuge, its wind blowing through his hair, swirling the fall leaves, tinkling the wind chimes.
“You know it’s not as simple as that. Come, this one is quite beautiful. And a warrior. Wait till you see the bow she carries. Not just a puppet, or at least she doesn’t play that part.”
He said nothing. He knew he could not leave Estun. That didn’t keep him from resenting it. What kind of bow would she have? Did it mean anything? Most of the eligible noblewomen who called on Aven had one characteristic in common—they were as docile as lambs in a herd. He couldn’t marry someone like that, nor did he trust that it wasn’t a ploy to gain favor. Aven had long ago resigned himself to looking for the bare minimum to meet his needs. His wants would have to be set aside. So while he might long for a warrior wife, he knew he didn’t really need one—although someone who could also prevent him from getting killed in his sleep was certainly not a bad candidate. He did need someone he could trust absolutely, who would give him her true opinions, even when it was difficult. It would help if those opinions weren’t morally reprehensible, if she had a conscience and an internal compass he could trust that wouldn’t waver. He would like that very much. Wait, was that a need or a want?
The odds that this random princess would have even some of the qualities he needed were not in his favor. Coming here to blindly marry him did not exactly raise his hopes.
“Are you coming?”
He nodded. “One more minute.”
She eyed him.
“I swear I’ll be right there.”
“Try not to be excessively late this time.” She shook her head, turned, and headed back inside.
The white rosebush next to his bench was in bloom again, one last display for fall. Perhaps a spray of flowers would make up for his dawdling.
The early afternoon bells had rung several minutes ago. They marked the beginning of sport in the Proving Grounds. Not only did they have a competition among the young knights and nobles beginning in three weeks, but the assembly of visiting Takaran diplomats lingered on and required endless entertainment. Another few days, and Aven would get to try out a part of diplomacy he rarely practiced—politely kicking out the rascals without damaging relations in the process.
Until then, he’d have to endure another afternoon of watching duel after duel amid the fire pits. He was beyond bored with the show—the Takarans had little skill compared to the average Akarian but insisted on taking part in every skirmish. He sighed. It wasn’t like he had real duties to attend to or anything. It wasn’t like there was a military to keep trained or a nation to tend.
Well, he might as well get on with it all.
Aven reached down and carefully plucked a spray of roses from the rosebush beside him. He reached the door before he thought better of it and returned for a second spray of the small white flowers.
What if she were a beautiful, intelligent warrior after all?
He headed back inside. The heavy iron doors that led to the terrace clanged shut behind him, and he was again enveloped in the darkness of Estun. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust, hating every second of blackness.
And, of course, he felt it start up, first a tingle inside him, then a flitter of air. Of course it would. This was the worst time for such a thing. This was the reason Aven could not leave Estun: his magic. The air began to whip around him unnaturally, threatening the torchlight with even greater darkness. It often reared its ugly head at moments like this, when he had just come in from the terrace after soaking up the sunlight. Other times, it acted up when tensions or emotions ran high. He could not control it, although he continued to try. He never left Estun and carefully controlled what he did with whom in hope of keeping this a secret. So far, he’d been fairly successful at hiding it, although his occasional strange absences did not go unnoticed. Lord Dyon was quick to point them out.
Because one day, Aven was to be king. And kings weren’t supposed to have magic. In fact, most people in Akaria pretended to have no magic at all. He suspected this was not entirely the truth because, well, there could be many like him with this inconvenient gift, but successful at controlling or hiding it. Still others, he heard, chose not to and instead hid themselves in remote towns and farmsteads. For the most part, those folks were left alone.
That didn’t mean anyone wanted a mage to be king, but no one had given Aven much say in the matter. The crown prince was who he was, and magic was what he’d been given, so he could only do his best to hide it. What were the gods up to, putting him in such a situation? The wind swirling around him picked up, whipping at his hair playfully. Anara mocks me, he thought.
He often tried to wait and hope it settled down, but when that didn’t work, he had one other tool in his chest. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and focused his mind on the Great Stone of Estun. Behind the head table in the banquet hall was a magnificent rock that had been hewn in half. Its outer shell was ordinary, but the inside was encrusted with great purple crystals both large and small. The stone loomed above onlookers at the height of seven men; it had been discovered when Estun was first dug from the mountain. It filled the great hall and scattered the candlelight during many an evening meal with its quiet sparkle. The banquet hall was also one of the only rooms that had windows, and sometimes early in the morning, the light reached the Great Stone and danced across the crystals in the most peculiar way. It was something he loved to see. But eno
ugh thinking about light—he needed to think about darkness, about the stone. The stone repressed magic in general and his air magic in particular. That was part of why his parents had brought him here and chosen to live in Estun—the hope that his magic would fade away.
It hadn’t worked.
Another breath, then another. He focused on the Great Stone, the heart of the mountain. Finally, the air around him was still.
He tried to shake off the sudden outbreak, but it made him nervous. What if it acted up again when he arrived to see their visitor? What if someone noticed? He’d gotten away with it this long, but how long could he continue successfully hiding his magic? Then again, what other choice did he have?
He straightened himself and headed toward the throne room to meet his potential wife.
Daes heaved open the heavy chamber doors himself, knocking the incompetent guards aside and striding into his receiving hall. Seulka jumped and straightened herself in her seat.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
She scowled at him. Not a sign of that noble breeding to be found, some days. And yet many considered her a noble of the highest caste and he only a pretender to nobility, all because her parents had been married and his had not. Their mothers had been sisters, which made them cousins, but she made very sure never to call him that. The king, on the other hand, was such a close relation, even though they were both related to him through the same incompetent and powerless great-uncle.
“Did you give her the orders?” he said.
“Yes. She has begun,” Seulka said. “She may be a rebellious sort, but she has the mind of a spy—willing or not.”
“Her will doesn’t matter. It’s our will that matters.” He flopped down into the armchair he’d insisted on installing behind the banquet table and kicked up his black boots on the footstool. Black cloak, black tunic, black belt—even his chair was black. A clean, strong color. It was good to be home. There was a reason they called him the Dark Master.
