Mage Slave (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 1)

by R. K. Thorne

  “He gave me his name before he knew my purpose,” she said. “And he was dressed more finely then.”

  Interesting. A foolish mistake, but beauty did have a way of getting men to talk.

  The Mistress nodded and looked at the young man once more up close. He eyed her back with a level, searching stare, fiery, but biding his time. He had the assurance and confidence of royalty, that was for sure—a distinct air of aloofness and superiority that was hard to fake. Daes had no doubt it was the prince, but it couldn’t hurt to be sure.

  The side door opened, and the lovely knight entered and stopped in her tracks.

  “Well, well.” She grinned and folded her arms across her chest. “We just cannot seem to quit each other.”

  “Knight, you said you were in Estun not a fortnight ago. Will you hold those words as truth, to your oath?” Daes demanded formally.

  She turned to him, solemn. “Yes. Of course. On my noble parentage.”

  “Can you identify this man?”

  She looked hard for a moment at the prince. The young man returned her gaze, a mixture of rage and sadness in his eyes. From just that look, Daes knew they were acquainted. Something had transpired between them, something more than dry diplomatic exchanges.

  “I know him to be Aven Lanuken, Crown Prince of Akaria.”

  “How can you be sure?” Seulka prodded.

  “I had hoped to be his wife.”

  “Now that’s—” the prince suddenly started. The creature mage’s head snapped to look at him. Ah, now what was that? An interesting reaction. Could there be something between them? The prince was quite handsome, so it was not hard to imagine.

  “On my knight’s oath, I swear to it.” The Devoted cut him off and smirked at him, looking pleased. “I was looking forward to doing my duty and ending you. But if my allies must do it, my goals are also achieved. Such are the mysteries of the Balance.”

  The prince glared at her. The creature mage’s jaw tightened. Very interesting. Was he seeing the result of the wiles and seductions she had used to keep her captive so effectively? Perhaps they had backfired on her as well.

  “Thank you, that will be—” Daes started.

  “I have another piece of information. But it’s not for free. Half a bounty,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll be the judge of its worth. But I’m listening.”

  “I also ran into these two on the journey here. You should keep your slaves on a shorter leash.”

  “I was achieving my purpose,” the creature mage snapped. “Which you would have prevented, I might add.” Daes frowned and looked expectantly at the knight.

  “He is a mage,” she said with a self-satisfied smile. The creature mage’s jaw clenched, and she looked as if she might have killed the woman had she been free to. Ah, so she knew? Had she hoped to hide it from them?

  “I agreed to no bounty,” the Fat Master interjected, irritated his funds were being spent so speedily, with so little negotiation. Daes had no time for nitpicking, but that was the Fat Master’s job.

  “An air mage, to be specific,” she said. “I witnessed him work magic in Estun. I had to leave immediately to get permission for assassination. Knights can’t attack royalty without consulting our order, as per our code. I missed my chance. But brand him, and you’ll see. And then my duty shall be fulfilled as well.”

  How interesting. Perhaps there was more to the creature mage’s touchiness than he’d thought. This changed things. Of course, Daes had worried some of them might have gifts or even be practicing the forbidden magic. But Seulka’s pressures and his own doubts had left him feeling those were paranoid fears, long shots.

  Apparently, not so paranoid after all. Only air mages could work the forbidden magic. They were much closer to what he feared than he’d dared to believe.

  “If he is a mage, you shall have a full bounty,” Daes replied. The Fat Master pursed his lips, but nodded. It was only fair. “This mage can’t earn a bounty, so it goes to you.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are indeed fair and just. Farewell, Aven,” the knight said, little emotion in her voice. If the creature mage cared for the prince, this knight had nothing but stone in her heart. She turned and left them, dress trailing gracefully in her wake.

  “Well, then,” Seulka said. “That is unexpected. But beside the point to these weary travelers. You have indeed completed your mission, Miara. Go and seek a healer, you are grievously injured. Get whatever you require to recover from your efforts. You may have three days without work as a reward.”

  The creature mage nodded, bowing. “Yes, Mistress.”

  “You, too, Sorin. Now be gone. Your work is done here. Guards—take this man to the dungeons.”

  But even as she said that, the Tall Master stood up. Everyone quieted, waiting. The Tall Master did not speak often.

  “Don’t you think… I should have him first?” he said in his soft, gravelly voice.

  Seulka let out a bark of laughter. “Aren’t you an eager one? And not even finish your lunch? I clearly need a new menu. Fine, let’s see if this knight’s claim is true. To the smithy with him, then!”

  The Tall Master immediately abandoned his food and headed straight for the prince, taking his arm from the creature mage. The guards surrounded them and pushed the mages aside. There was nothing the Tall Master enjoyed as much as making a new slave—food, wine, and women were nothing in comparison. Daes might have been dark, but the Tall Master gave him a run for his money with his very specific sadistic streak. No one relished the pain in their eyes quite like he did. For Daes, it was more a necessary evil to achieve a necessary goal, ensuring their power and preventing mages from destroying everything their nation had ever built.

  That said, this was important. Daes stood up. “I’ll join you this time.”

  The mages watched from the doorway as the Tall Master strode out the side door with the prince in tow. Daes crossed behind the others to meet him as the guards opened the door.

  The pain on the face of the rebellious one was blatant. Indeed, too much emotion. Perhaps he shouldn’t complain. She had achieved his goal and the mission. He could decide if her attachment would prove problematic later. Perhaps it would even prove useful, although not to the part of him that had grown fond of that brutal wildness about her.

  Later. For now, it was time to make a new slave.

  Guards hauled Aven outside again and toward a low, dark building. He carefully studied his jailers. They were lightly armed but did not carry themselves with much of a soldierly air. He doubted they knew much more than how to slash with the pathetic blades they carried.

  The two leaders—presumably the ones in charge of this whole place—were not armed at all, although he suspected the one dressed in black probably had something concealed. Overall, it was five average men versus him. Not terrible odds, but not great if even a few of them had any serious combat experience. No, if he was going to make a break for it, this didn’t seem like a very opportune time. But if they hoped to make a slave of him, too, would he really get another chance?

  He gritted his teeth. Certainly, he had guessed this day would come. He’d known it was almost inevitable. But now that it was here, he still wanted to find a way out. The air picked up around him, whipping angrily with his frustration.

  Had Miara been right? If he had actually been able to free her, maybe it would all have been worth it. But he hadn’t. He’d failed. As it was, he was giving up everything. And she was still a slave. And now he would be, too. He had let down everyone—Miara, his parents, even his people.

  They rounded the corner of the smithy, nearly to the door. With as little warning as he could manage, Aven spun away from the tall one in the direction of the fewest guards. He tried to direct the air in the tall one’s direction, but he wasn’t sure his magic achieved anything. It was not an ingrained instinct yet. His ability to punch someone in the face, however, was. He collided with the chest of one guard and made use of this skill
. The guard was still too surprised to react, and he doubled over as Aven sprinted blindly forward.

  Someone tackled him from behind, and they went down. He heaved to his left, seeking to roll over them and away. He did manage to roll onto his back, crushing someone, but the dark one was right behind him and seized him, two guards joining him quickly.

  While two guards gripped either side of him more securely, the man in black robes studied him for a moment.

  “I admire your spirited attempt,” he said, “but it’s really a waste. There’s no escape from here. Every mage is at my disposal to stop you, hundreds on all sides. Not to mention the guards, and that you’re in the center of Kavanar, where an Akarian such as yourself is not welcome.”

  Aven narrowed his eyes. “I thought Akaria and Kavanar were at peace,” he said, snorting.

  “Well, I suppose you’re about to find out firsthand the truth of that,” said the man, smiling darkly. “Bring him.”

  The dark one motioned, and the two guards jostled him along, the tall one following. Apparently it was the tall one who had tackled him. Aven was not surprised. These guards seemed close to useless. They guarded sheep who couldn’t even choose to escape if they wanted to, so that was really no surprise. Didn’t mean he was getting away, though.

  A hot, stale blast of air hit him as they entered the smithy. The ceiling was low, and ironically, the tall one had to bend to stand anywhere inside the place. Aven could see nearly a dozen blacksmiths working nearby, quite a large number for a smithy. One hearth stood empty but smoldered fiercely. It was there they seemed to be headed.

  Instead of an anvil in this area, there was a table with leather bindings at the top and bottom. Clearly it was meant for a person rather than a sword.

  One guard shoved him toward the table, and another grabbed his arm from the opposite side and sent him down with a thud. He kicked and tried to twist away from them, but he didn’t waste much energy in the attempt. The dark one was right. If there were an opportunity to escape, this was not it.

  Leather tightened around his wrists and ankles, holding him fast to the table. Straps wrapped his neck and his chest, coming up through slits in the table and fastened underneath. One guard took a knife to his sleeve, quickly slicing it and ripping it away at the shoulder.

  The tall one removed something long, thin, and metallic from his robes and put it into the fire. The dark one stood nearby, crossed his arms, and waited, frowning.

  The part of the smithy they occupied was pitch black, not letting in even a ray of light from outside or a glimpse of an overcast cloud. The stars that were supposed to be his guide were a whole world away, as hard to imagine now as the Great Stone in Estun.

  In spite of that, he closed his eyes. He saw Miara on her horse, the star over her shoulder that should have been her savior, if he had been good enough. If he had known more. He whispered a prayer to Casel, emitting no sound but moving his lips until suddenly the pain cut through the words. His teeth clenched, and he could only think the prayer in his mind.

  Casel, my guide, my star, keep me free.

  He felt the searing, hot pain on his own left shoulder. The twisting heat, the energy like sulfurous maggots boring into his skin. He ignored it and repeated his words again. Casel, my guide, my star, keep me free. Casel, my guide, my star, keep me free. Casel, my guide, my star, keep me free. He reached out with his mind toward the sky, away from his body, blocking out the leather cutting into his wrists, pulling him, holding him to the hard earth. He reached up, flailing blindly, his only way to fight the white-hot metal against his skin.

  Did he feel that icy white energy on his forehead? Was it just his imagination? Desperate insanity? There was no space for logical thought, no energy to wonder at what the truth was in that moment.

  Finally, the hot metal against his shoulder was gone.

  The dark one’s voice. “It is done.”

  “A few more words,” said another voice.

  He could still feel the throbbing, the agonizing burn vibrating through his chest and up into his skull. Some kind of incantation was in the air—the tall one reciting something to finish the job.

  He gasped for breath, realizing only now that he’d held it while the white-hot poker was touching him. Or maybe it was just the pain, or the shock.

  He opened his eyes to see the dark one looking over him, studying him.

  It was over. Aven was a slave now. And he always would be.

  14

  Scars

  Sorin led Miara toward the healers in the east ward. A daze had settled over her. Perhaps those slashes on her back were deeper than she’d thought. Or perhaps it was everything else.

  Aven was theirs now. And worse, they’d found out that he was a mage. Even after she’d tried so hard to keep it a secret, even from Sorin. Perhaps it would delay his death or even keep him alive. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? And how had that knight found her way here? By the ancients, how could anyone build a life around exterminating others? How could anyone convince themselves such a thing was right and holy?

  And the one piece of the puzzle she had wondered about—had the Knight been in line to be his wife? Had they been betrothed or only in negotiations? How could he have even considered such a woman? It was ridiculous to feel jealous at a moment like this, when she’d rejected Aven at every turn and likely just delivered him to his execution—but she couldn’t help herself. Could there actually have been something between them? What if they had been in love? Aven had seemed so sweet, a bit naïve and innocent, but definitely an easy flirt—could it have all been a show? Could she have underestimated his charm? Perhaps he had only sought his freedom, and it had all meant nothing. Maybe he felt nothing for her, and she was a fool for falling for it, just as the Knight had been.

  No. No, it certainly had meant something. He’d had his chance to run. He hadn’t taken it. But that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t have come before her.

  She tried to calm her thoughts as two healers came to work on her; she knew too much turmoil in their presence would drain their energy unnecessarily and made her body not want to heal. They looked her over in a mix of surprise and excitement.

  “My goodness, Miara! You’re in just terrible shape,” the blond one named Fesian cooed. “We hardly ever see anything like this.” She was just barely veiling the pleasure in her words. “You are bleeding profusely. I can’t believe you’re still standing. This is wonderful.”

  “Sorin is really eating this up,” the other added. He was a redheaded man named Tameun. “But not you. Not that I’m surprised. Lie down now.” Miara complied and lay down on the cot.

  “Isn’t that always how it is,” Fesian muttered. “The real warriors don’t puff up their chests and prance around. Now this will just hurt a little.”

  Miara stared up at the wood beams and tried to keep her mind blank and calm. She didn’t know if she should be happy or concerned that the healer considered her a real warrior. But bloody as she was, perhaps anything else would be ridiculous. She was indeed fresh from a battle—both physically, and in her soul. At least the physical fight was over.

  Fesian circled around, moved her hand over the scratch on Miara’s face, and began to focus on it.

  Miara held up her hand. “Leave that,” she said.

  “But why? We’re not short on energy. We’ve got more than we know what to do with, I promise you. You needn’t skimp.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replied. “I can’t explain. I just… I have to keep it, at least for a little while. I don’t want to completely erase it all. Maybe I’ll change my mind and be back tomorrow.”

  This seemed to assuage them. The talon punctures required several stops and starts and rests in between as they healed them back and forth in waves. The world was fuzzy and seemed to buzz around her. She lay mostly still, eyes shut, dazed, stuck like an insect cocooned in amber.

  Each healing spell itself was agony. But they only barely registered in her mind. She had
forced herself to stop thinking about the stupid knight. All that was left was… nothing.

  There was nothing to think of, nothing to work toward, nothing to care about. Nothing but the tendril of a thought of him, the feeling that someone who had just been in the room was now gone, the cold feeling after a warm hand leaves your side. She sighed. It wasn’t that there was nothing left. Something was left: the glaring absence of him.

  How could she care in a world that would let Aven die? How could she build anything in a world like this? Why would she bring herself to even move? How could she do anything at all, really?

  She didn’t.

  Fesian paused for a moment, frowning at the eternal wound on Miara’s shoulder. “Hmph. Odd.”

  “What is it?” Miara managed.

  “Oh, nothing.” The healer returned to fussing over the talon punctures on her back. “Just a few more, hold on.”

  Finally, Tameun roused her with a pat on her forearm. Had she fallen asleep? When had she closed her eyes? “That’s enough for now, Miara. Let’s see if it finishes the last little healing on its own. There should be few scars.”

  “On the outside, anyway,” she muttered.

  Tameun gave a friendly snort, and Fesian wrapped her arms around Miara in a hug. “All things heal with time,” she whispered.

  Death doesn’t, Miara thought. Slavery doesn’t. But she didn’t voice her thoughts.

  The healers left her. She trudged back to the dorm. Her father wasn’t there, nor Luha. Of course, it was the middle of the day, and they were working. She sat down on her bed, then threw herself carelessly down, burying her face in the blankets.

  There she lay, thinking very little, hardly moving, just staring, as the day marched on.

  At one point, she thought she heard a scream in the distance. Was that Aven? She leapt up, running to the window and throwing the shutters open, listening. Nothing.

  No, no, it made no sense. It was probably long done. Before she’d even left the healers. The branding didn’t take long. It could not be him. It was probably just children playing.