Mage Slave (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 1)

by R. K. Thorne

  He wasn’t sure how long he ran or how far. After a while, he realized there had been no noise nearby for quite some time. He stopped.

  Where was Mara? Was she nearby? Was she injured? Had she… survived?

  He gathered himself into a ball, but he was too cold. Too cold. He looked up at the treetops—yes, yes, he could see the stars. Not Casel, but he could spot Anefin. He took a deep breath and reached for the whispery energy of the light from the star. It warmed him slowly. The forest around him was quiet. He basked in the starlight and listened for any sign of pursuit.

  Minutes passed. Perhaps longer. Then he heard one crunch, another. He uncurled himself, trying to figure out if he needed to run.

  It’s me.

  He sighed with relief, feeling her voice in his mind. She did not sound well but not terribly weak either. And she was alive.

  Are you okay?

  Yes. Not fully recovered—but better. In the morning, I should be able to heal the rest of the way. The form of a small chipmunk neared him, approaching slowly and steadily. It had to be her. Chipmunks never moved that slowly.

  How did you get away?

  As you got bigger, I got smaller. You were a good distraction.

  He laughed—or made some strange animal noise that he hoped she would take as one.

  There’s a log over here. Think you can tolerate a few hours as a chipmunk? she asked him. It’s dangerous to remain out of our own forms for too long, but it will be the best way to hide.

  I’ll manage. She led him a short way toward a hollowed-out log. The darkness of the forest floor was dense and amazingly uneven. Things he would have normally not even noticed as he stepped over them became huge obstacles he now needed to circle around once they were discovered. Moss carpeted their tiny haven, and he crawled inside behind her.

  She settled herself on the soft moss. He curled in beside her. His stomach gurgled, and he was hiding inside a hollow log as owl-bait.

  But he was alive. So was Mara. They’d escaped Evana, at least for now. And for once, he’d had something to do with the situation. Things could be worse.

  9

  Healing

  When Miara woke up the next morning, it took more than a few moments for her groggy mind to process the strange bedding, her strange fur, and her adorable bedfellow. Right. Chipmunks. There was one nearby—right. Hell.

  She had planned to wake up in a few hours and change them back, but apparently they’d both been exhausted. Hopefully it hadn’t been too long for Aven.

  Her mouth was parched, and her head spun with hunger. But there were no noises of men nearby, so perhaps—just perhaps—they had gotten away from that she-devil and her bastards.

  She rolled onto her paws and crawled out of the log. Aven shifted but didn’t wake. As cautiously as she could, she let the transformation unravel back into her current self. Or an injured version of it.

  She had regained energy slowly in the night. The vibrant life of the forest around her helped, but keeping up their disguises was still a drain, so she had yet to heal completely. Burns were subtle, expensive injuries, with so many layers of skin to individually rebuild.

  She looked down at her hands, the skin still covered with burns. She felt a little vain, but she didn’t want him to see her like this. She would use what energy she could gather. She reached out into the pines, the roots, the fungi, a family of robins, a stand of birch—gathering what she could without injuring them. Gradually, she eased the skin and muscle back into the way it was supposed to be.

  She twisted herself back into a chipmunk. She had to find some food. It felt a little safer until she could be sure there was really no one nearby.

  What did chipmunks eat? She took a deep breath, and a wave of scents washed over her, suddenly appealing. Instincts twitched. Time to scavenge some breakfast.

  When Aven awoke, he was still a chipmunk. He didn’t mind being a chipmunk quite as much as he’d minded being a mouse, and Mara—or at least a chipmunk he assumed was Mara—was piling dark green needles and small nuts nearby.

  Eat! she said. Are you all right? You’ve been a chipmunk too long. Eat, and then we can go back to being ourselves again.

  He felt surprisingly well as he plodded over to the pile she was making. What if we didn’t? he thought, only partly joking.

  Didn’t what?

  Didn’t go back to being ourselves. Just stayed here in the forest, as chipmunks.

  She stilled, an acorn between her little paws. The wound on her shoulder she had shown him was still there, even in this brown-furred form. Just stayed? You would stay here? With me?

  He nodded as best he knew how as a chipmunk. What if we did? I would. We could.

  I wish that were true. She dropped the acorn and scurried away.

  Was it something he’d said? He made his way slowly to the little pile, sniffing. Once he caught their fresh scent, they smelled surprisingly delicious. He chomped away.

  A few minutes later, she returned with more nuts and ate. Watching her cheeks bulge made him snicker to himself, and for a moment he was amazed at all that he’d experienced since she’d plucked him from his balcony on the mountaintop. So much that he’d been missing, so much to discover.

  All right. Ready to be a man again?

  If I ever was one. Sure. He laughed, half to himself.

  Boy, man, hardly a difference in most that I’ve met. Okay, brace yourself.

  He shut his eyes, sat as still as possible, and after a few moments, the dizzy whirling began. It seemed to last not quite so long this time nor be quite so horrifying, and he opened his eyes to find the two of them on hands and knees above a tiny mound of pine needles.

  He burst out laughing, and so did she. He immediately regretted it, though, with all the aches and pains that came back with the gesture. They both lurched stiffly to their feet.

  “That seems to get easier every time,” he said.

  “You get used to it,” she grunted as she tried to stretch out her shoulders. She glanced up at the sun and around them. “Well, I have no idea where we are now or where my bag is. I can call the horses, or they may be able to find us on their own or get free if someone hasn’t locked them up too well.” She looked upset at the thought. “I’ll call them, and then we’ll head out.”

  “Which way?” He listened for pursuers as she seemed to pick a direction. “They’ll still be looking for us.”

  She nodded. “We’ll go in the opposite direction and hope for the best. That way.” Then she crouched down to the earth. He wasn’t sure how she could manage it if she was anywhere near as sore as he was. Placing her palm flat on the dirt, she let out a long, low whistle. Her eyes were closed, her mind clearly moving somewhere else, the sound of the whistled note beautiful. He had a sudden longing to fall to his knees and kiss her. Before he could do anything crazy, it was over.

  She stood, dusted off her hands, and smiled. “They heard, I think. They’re free, or at least so it seemed. Let’s head out. They’ll catch up.”

  They had been traveling an hour, maybe two. Aven’s ears caught the sound of horse hooves clomping slowly on dull earth. Mara grabbed his arm and pulled him with her into a crouch. They scrambled behind a nearby pile of brush.

  He caught her eyes. “Our horses?” he whispered.

  “No, they’d be at a gallop.”

  They waited. Could it be the Devoted? Around a large pine tree, horses finally came into clear view. Several wagons shuffled along, with women, men, and children shuffling along beside them.

  Nomads, Aven thought.

  “Regin, he’s getting weaker,” someone called out. “We need to stop.”

  “They could still be nearby.” A woman’s voice.

  A long moment of silence. Aven spotted a wiry older man with tawny brown skin and peppered hair who moved forward and peered into one of the wagons. Then he spoke, his voice grim. “We have no choice. Make camp. Huz, Muj, do a search of the area for signs of them. The rest of you, hunker down.�
�

  He could feel Mara tense without looking at her. They were not hidden at all. Should they try to get out of here? Who were these people? They certainly didn’t seem like Devoted. The nomads started their search on the opposite side of the road, giving them a moment to consider. They clearly weren’t soldiers—there was nothing systematic or experienced to their searching. He glanced at Mara. Her eyes darted around. He braced himself for another transformation.

  Instead, she stood up and motioned for him to follow her. She walked boldly toward the people moving just off the road to make camp. Still surprised, he staggered up and followed her.

  The old man noticed them almost immediately. He made no sound, only watching them levelly, still, hands clasped in front of him. Waiting. Another man noticed, then another, as their footsteps crunched needles and branches with their approach.

  “Hold,” a man’s deep voice rang out. “Announce yourselves.”

  The nomads all fell silent now, turning toward them. They might not be soldiers, but their faces were grave and serious, like the war-torn.

  “We cannot announce ourselves,” Mara called, “but we mean you no harm.”

  “I demand—” the man started.

  “Demand all you want, we cannot,” she said.

  “Of course they cannot say who they are, Temul. Not with all these Devoteds roaming around, wreaking havoc, killing children, looking for them.” The old man spoke now.

  Mara’s face was blank as a mask, but he thought he heard her breath catch.

  “You are the mages these Devoteds are looking for,” he said.

  Mara said nothing. As in the confrontation with his mother, perhaps she was unable to say anything. It certainly wouldn’t help to own up to it.

  “Be gone. You have already done us enough harm.”

  “No,” Mara insisted.

  “Yes,” the old man hissed. The camp fell silent. Two men were coming out of the wagon the old man had peered into before, carrying someone on a palette made from fabric and two branches.

  It was a child. A boy.

  Aven took two steps toward him without thinking. Mara put her hand on his arm to still him.

  “They haven’t stopped looking for you, but they headed south again. You’re lucky you missed them. We were not so lucky,” the old man said gravely. “Now if you cannot help us, go.”

  There it was. Aven had felt sure something was coming, that the nomad hadn’t been planning to just turn them away. He’d just wanted to make a show of it. This old man knew they could help, or was betting they could. He must know something of magic. He was hoping to pressure them into offering their help.

  He turned to Mara and whispered, “Could you heal the boy?”

  She clenched her jaw. “Well, yes, but—”

  “No. If you can heal him, we must do it.” He could see the old man, who was pretending not to listen, perk up.

  “I’m exhausted, Aven,” she hissed through gritted teeth as quietly as she could. “Even on a good day, when I didn’t need to heal, when we hadn’t slept on the damn floor as chipmunks all night and eaten needles and pinecones—”

  “What about the trees? Or take the energy from me, then.”

  “No. It’s still not enough.” She glared at him.

  He glared right back. In that moment, he suddenly felt the heat of the sun on his skin. He pointed up at it. “You said I can pull it from the sun. I’ve done it before.”

  “Only once. Are you mad?”

  “I did it last night, too. I can do it.”

  “No. Aven, you—” Her voice was getting louder.

  “What has more energy than the sun?”

  “I could kill you. If you don’t pull at just the right rate, you’ll go mad—or go dead. I won’t. I could kill you.”

  “You won’t,” he said firmly, looking at her, face hard.

  “We can’t risk—”

  “That boy’s going to die because of us,” he hissed, lowering his voice so the man couldn’t hear him, preparing to beg her. “We must do it, Mara.”

  “But—”

  “They’re my people,” Aven said more gently now. “Take me wherever you must, Mara, but can’t you at least let me help them once? While I still can?”

  Aven’s voice was a mixture of command and vulnerability, both demanding and pleading. Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Her bond would almost certainly keep her from killing either of them. The ordeal could probably make them both terribly weak, though.

  But he was even more right that it was the right thing to do. The last thing she wanted to do with her newfound freedom from the Devoted Knights was risk it to these nomads she’d never met. If she was incapacitated, which was likely, who knew what they would do? And healing a life-threatening injury was usually the work of a team of skilled healers, sometimes as many as ten. She was talented but not necessarily that talented. She would likely be unconscious by the end of it.

  She glanced from Aven’s stern glare to the old man’s and back again.

  She sighed. At least she and Aven had lost everything these nomads could potentially steal.

  “Fine. Damn you. I told you you’d get us both killed,” she grunted at him.

  “What if we could help you, old man?” Aven called.

  The nomad turned, smiling, one eyebrow raised.

  “The Devoted took our packs and horses. We need food, water, rest. If we try to help the boy, will you give us that in exchange?”

  The old man nodded. “Come. The boy is dying. He lives, and you can have all of those.” He motioned them forward.

  “And if we can’t save him?” Mara asked.

  “We shall see.”

  Aven trotted ahead of her toward the boy, and she launched into a jog to keep up with him. The nomads had lowered his cot to the ground outside the wagon. The middle of the road was hardly a discreet place to do magic—let alone such intense magic—especially when there were Devoted Knights hunting them. It was stupid.

  But they needed light, and time was precious. The middle of the road was as good as they were going to get. She said a quick prayer to Anara that they might actually be able to do this. Let the boy be younger and smaller than she guessed. Let pine needles be more nutritious than they tasted. Let Aven be an even more talented mage than she suspected he was. He was definitely more persuasive than she’d bargained for.

  Or perhaps she was just falling in love with him. Almost certainly, that was what turned her into a confident wet noodle that would assuredly do whatever he wanted. No time to ponder that now, though. At least he, unlike others, was determined to turn her power toward good.

  “What happened to him?” Aven asked.

  “Arrow to the chest,” a young blond woman answered, speaking only to Aven as he took to one knee. “We removed it, but he’s having trouble breathing and has lost a lot of blood. Knights said they didn’t like how he looked. Said they smelled magic on him.” The woman took a ragged breath. “Can you actually help him?” Aven turned and looked up at Mara.

  “Yes,” she said. “We can.” On another day she might have wavered, but something about the look in his eyes… She didn’t want to fuss or hedge. She just knew. They would because they had to. She knelt down beside Aven and looked at him solemnly. “Are you ready?” He nodded. “All right, let’s do this. I’ll start with the trees and critters around here, but I can only go so far without leaving a blackened crater of death. Then I’ll rely on you. Put this hand on my neck. Yes, that’s right.” She moved his fingers to cover the back of her neck fully. She put her hands on the boy’s arm, his skin cold and clammy under her fingers. “I suggest you close your eyes, but look toward the sun. See it behind your eyelids. Do what feels right, whatever you must to keep focused on the energy and pulling it. You can’t stop.” He nodded somberly. “When it is done, I will pull away from you—or more likely fall away. That’s when you know you can stop.”

  He nodded just once, crisply.

  “Ready?”
she whispered, her eyes locked with his gray-green.

  “Thank you, Mara.” His fingers grazed the back of her neck softly.

  She did not respond. Words would have stumbled out of her mouth if she’d let them as she felt a flush of warmth.

  She tightened her grip on the boy’s arm and began. She pulled slowly at first, feeling herself fill up, trying to give him a chance to catch on. Damn his insensitivity—it would only make this harder. He wasn’t made for this.

  But to her surprise, she felt his energies replenish immediately, then a little more. She pulled more. “Faster now,” she whispered to him. “Ready? Going faster.”

  Now there was enough to feed a little into the boy. Tiny streaks of energy went zipping from her through his veins, seeking the tears, the blood, the holes.

  “More,” she demanded. She pulled more. He found more, somehow.

  Now she could feel the boy’s bones, feel the blood coursing through him, the brokenness, the sick blackness that was not the Way. Healing required little thought, just great energy. The body already knew what it should do, how it should be. She simply helped it do what it was already attempting. The boy coughed, then sputtered out the blood from his lungs.

  His veins pulsed with magic, his bones shook with energy. The magic coursing through them both was intoxicating. Euphoric. The body longed to heal itself—but it needed more. She was possessed by the magic now, the spell, the process. Her body and the boy’s were one system, magic flowing between them in a vortex. She lost all restraint. She lost all control. It needed more.

  She drained energy as quickly as she could. The magic was in control of her now. She was a conduit, Aven was the source—and the boy would be healed.

  The bones snapped and crackled in his chest. The blood fizzled. The boy screamed as his body violently and gracelessly rearranged itself. Nerves crackled with snaps and sizzles, alive again, desperately sucking every ounce of energy she had to once again—feel—alive—