Mage Slave (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 1)

by R. K. Thorne

  At his shoulder, the fire met the ice. The brand was still there, the heat still seared his skin in agonizing intensity. But there it stopped, like two winds blowing directly against each other, each one holding the other back. It was as if the energy of the star wanted to flow beyond him into the brand itself. It didn’t want to stop with Aven. Something about the heat wouldn’t let it continue.

  Finally, the man ceased. He said the same words again, but his voice was strained.

  It’s not working. They can’t enslave me even if they know I am a mage. It mustn’t be working!

  The surge of energy and triumph he felt at that idea quickly dissipated as the soldiers untied him and brought him upright. Yellow splotches whirled before his eyes. He lurched against one of the nearest ones and wished he could say it was part of some clever ruse toward an escape.

  They dragged him back past the torches and lanterns, past the over-hot furnace, back into the dungeon cell. As exhausted as he was, his hope hung on what they would do when they entered.

  Again, a guard shackled him to the wall. They locked the door behind them.

  Aven had never felt so happy to be chained to something. Well, except perhaps to be chained to Miara’s bed. Exhausted as he was, he found himself grinning in the darkness.

  Was it possible? Was it true? Did he dare believe? And if he’d protected himself… was there a chance Miara was really free, too? Or that there might be some way to free her if he got a chance to try again?

  He sat, thinking, eyes alive and watching the coals in the furnace dance. Perhaps he was not such a failure after all. He had to figure out a way to know for sure.

  15

  Boundaries

  Miara jolted awake. Nothing had startled her, as much as she’d suddenly realized how much light filled the room. The sun was well risen. She hadn’t woken up this late since she was a child.

  She automatically reached for Luha beside her, but she was gone and the bed cold. It was well beyond the morning bell.

  How could she have slept so late? The compulsion had greeted her each morning for over two decades now, and the Mistress’s release from work had never changed anything before. Perhaps it had been only habit all along. Or perhaps she was just so exhausted. She’d probably woken ever so slightly and fallen asleep again without remembering it.

  She stood and cracked open the window farther to get a look at the day. It was even later than she’d thought because the sky was dreary and overcast, nearly as dim as the dawn hours, but too many people were out and about. Judging by that, it must be midday at least.

  She stood at the window a long time. Where was there to go? What needed to be done? Nothing. She watched the people walking about and felt the air freeze her skin at each whip of the wind, which only made her think of him and bathing in the river not so long ago.

  A bath. And not an icy one. Perhaps that was something worth doing. Aven would urge her to if he were here. Or even join her. She gathered her things and headed for the bathhouse.

  Of all the journeys she’d gone on, she never ceased to be grateful to return to these ivory marble halls. The squat building was not far, but the cold, whipping wind chilled her even more deeply in the few moments she was outside. The darkest winter days would be on them soon. But what did it matter? What did any season matter?

  What were they doing to Aven?

  The thought nagged at the base of her skull. There was no way to know. She shook her head at herself as she reached the baths. Inside, she headed to the right—the women’s side—where fresh bathing robes and drying robes hung from hooks near the entryway, places to leave your clothing for laundering, places to wash in small sinks. But the main attraction was through the last set of doors.

  She stripped off her clothes and into one of the bathing robes, a loose, light slip that hid little. If a man had been there, she’d have considered herself naked. But in the baths, there were only other women. All was separated. The robes didn’t hide much, but they hid enough to not feel the need to stare.

  At midday, it was probably empty anyway. She stopped at the end of the dressing room near the shower and dropped the robe long enough to pull the chain. Icy cold water gave her a familiar, exciting jolt as it splashed down upon her. She tried to shake most of the worst grime off, shivering now.

  She wandered through the next set of doors, and a wall of lovely, warm steam hit her face. The tile under her feet even felt warm on this cold autumn day. Before her stretched a lovely expanse of soft, blue, steaming water.

  She took a deep breath and then moved down the small stairs and into the water. The baths were lined with many places to recline; they were mostly for soaking, not washing. On the far end of the room were more showers for the real cleaning. She would do that last.

  For now, she would just allow herself to sit still and be.

  Sefim had taught her the importance of meditation, of silence, of simply being—important parts of the Way. From the moment she’d heard Aven’s name, she’d been stirred, though, deep in her soul. Simply being had grown harder and harder. Shouldn’t it be easier now? Now that it was over? It didn’t feel over, of course. It would likely just take her a while to accept that.

  She found a spot to rest that didn’t even require her to hold her neck up, and then she settled in and tried to clear her thoughts. Each time Aven crept in, she tried to still herself, but a few seconds later, he would return. What was happening to Aven? Why had Sorin done what he had done? Would they find out the Akarians knew a mage had been involved? How exactly had Dekana died? What were they doing to Aven? What did the Dark Master really want with him? What would he do?

  Would they send her after Aven’s brothers? Her blood ran cold. By the gods, she couldn’t stand the thought. Where was the Balance in all this? There was certainly little balance within her mind at the moment.

  Stilling her mind was not working. She tried to focus on listening instead. She listened to the trickle of the water flowing into the baths, the hum of the cooler water of the showers, waterfalls of all sizes around her. Finally, that beauty was able to calm her for a little while.

  Some time passed in peace, but gradually she began to feel that someone was staring at her.

  When the feeling would not go away, she opened her eyes and tried to look around casually. No one was close by, but sure enough, off to the right she felt someone abruptly look away.

  That old battle ax Menaha. But why? She knew Miara well and had always believed her a capable spy. Menaha shouldn’t be surprised to discover that Miara had returned or have any other reason to stare. And Menaha was not the type to stare. Could it be because of Dekana’s loss?

  Miara closed her eyes and tried to put it out of her mind again, but the brief peace she’d achieved had vanished.

  She had soaked enough. She should just shower and be done with it. She raised her hands from the water. Sure enough, raisins.

  She rose and headed back toward the stairs out of the water, passing Menaha on the way, nodding respectfully.

  “Good day, Miara,” she said. She had a voice that was lovely and dark, colored with age and experience. Her white hair was stark against bronzed skin; she still trained outside as much as ever. “Back from your mission? Are you feeling all right?”

  Was her dark mood that obvious? She hated being so transparent. “Yes, I’m back. Feeling as well as I could be,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it’s just that—hmm, forgive me for saying, but…” Menaha started but seemed to hesitate. It was not at all like her.

  “What is it? It’s all right.”

  “Well, I don’t know quite how to put it, but… your scar. It looks—strange. Different. I could swear it looks smaller.”

  Miara lifted her arm and craned her neck to get a look at it, and sure enough—she had never seen it in such a state. It did look particularly scabby, although the water had not been good for that.

  “Am I finally losing my wits?”

&
nbsp; “Huh,” she said. “No, you’re right. It does look odd.”

  “It almost looks like it’s… healing,” Menaha whispered. “I’ve seen a few wounds in my day, and that’s what it looks like.” Her eyes studied Miara’s shoulder with the same intensity that filled her voice.

  Miara frowned. “Strange, indeed.”

  “You should keep it out of the water for it to heal best, but how…” Menaha trailed off.

  “But it can’t heal.”

  They both studied it for a moment.

  “Just another new form of torture, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed.” Menaha smiled bitterly and nodded. She leaned back to relax again, her enchantment with the scar broken.

  “Have a good bath, Mena,” Miara said and headed for the showers.

  She returned from the baths and went straight back to her bed. She wasn’t sure how much time passed, especially with the grayness of the sky and the seemingly unchanging cold of the autumn air. She stoked the fire occasionally, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and thought of Aven.

  She knew it was evening not because of the sun setting or even her stomach aching, but because her father and Luha returned home. Evening prayer was coming, and suddenly, she hated more than ever to have to haul herself out of bed and kneel down for them.

  She listened for a while, mind blank, to her father and Luha moving around in the rooms. It was a kind of bliss—or at least serenity—to just hear them nearby, going through the motions of life. The mundaneness of it made her feel at peace. At least she’d made it home. In the past, that peace had always been more than enough.

  Not this time, of course.

  The bells started to ring their warning off in the distance, and she hauled herself out of bed and made for the fire, trading one warmth as quickly as possible for another. Her father and Luha settled before the fire, too—the prayer could take quite a long time, and the floor was cold. Her room had both a fire and a rug that fit them all.

  Her father glanced at her with the usual sadness in his eyes. Prayer had always been something he loved, and she hated making him dread it. Perhaps today she would just kneel down with them, not call the torture down on herself, the inevitable pain. What point did it serve? It hurt her and her father, not the Masters. It accomplished nothing. What good had her rebellion ever done her?

  And if there was no such thing as the Balance anyway—what did it matter if her supplication was willing or not, sincere or not?

  She stared into the crackling flames, turning the idea around in her mind, letting it settle in, feeling with each bell clang the impending pressure to make a decision. What did it matter? How could she make a choice when no choice of hers would make anything better in the end? Disgusting. Her resistance didn’t matter anymore.

  She bent to kneel on her own. But before she’d moved more than an inch, she stopped, frozen by a sudden memory against her will—the look on his face when she’d attacked him on that balcony back in Estun. Soon, other images flooded her thoughts—gray-green eyes, his eyes frowning at the first discovery of his shackles. Young girls dancing in the snow. Rosebushes. A healed little boy running in the forest. Sunlight on the river and glistening drops of water on skin.

  For a moment, she could see him standing at the edge of the nomad encampment, looking at her with that look in his eyes, dim firelight playing across his features.

  She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. She straightened.

  No. It mattered. Now more than ever.

  She was still a woman with an opinion, who had been born free, even if she hadn’t lived free for very long. And if this was the only way she could show that that woman was still alive under her curse, then so be it. It would be worth a small amount of discomfort on her father’s part.

  The deep, heavy bells ceased. There was the brief tense silence, the calm before the storm, as she waited for the lighter, higher bells of the prayer service to begin.

  Then they came, one after another, deceptively gentle, crystalline with beauty. They built into a delicate and wandering chord, full of glory and the joy of worship.

  Miara realized suddenly that her eyes were squeezed shut. The only pain she felt came from her own nails digging into her palms. She opened one eye, then the other.

  Luha and her father were both kneeling before the fire, craning their necks as much as possible to stare. She stood beside them, no pain, no pressure, no fear.

  No compulsion.

  She staggered a step back, then another, and fell partway sitting onto her bed. She clutched at her shoulder, nothing there but a strange lump. No pain. She yanked the neck of her tunic wide to expose her shoulder, and she lurched toward the mirror.

  Indeed, it was even smaller than at the baths. Menaha had been right.

  It was going away.

  “How— What…” she whispered. Her father and Luha could not answer; they only stared. But there was a brilliant glitter in her father’s eyes—of hope, of joy, of something even more.

  Could it be that something had changed? That something had… broken? How could it be? Was this just part of the days of rest they’d given her?

  It had never been part of the days of rest before. They had never forgotten to tell her that she had them, or how many. For the first time in years, she hadn’t woken up in the morning.

  Was it possible? Could she really be— She couldn’t even let the word into her mind, it was so frightening.

  She had to know for sure.

  She flung the door open and ran down to the hall and stairs, heading for the forest. The freezing air hit her and knocked some sense into her. What did she think she was doing? Every mage was bound to be in prayer—what would she say if someone saw her? Streaking toward the border wall at top speed in the middle of the evening’s prayer was highly suspicious to say the least.

  She couldn’t wait, though. She had to know.

  She slipped into the form of a small gray cat and blended into the dying grass and late fall darkness, slinking into the shadows. She took a roundabout path, darting from tree to tree in the pastures, avoiding any shepherds who might still be heading in from the pastures, but her feet raced at top speed. There was no pain, only the elation of the wind moving past and the good kind of burning in her muscles.

  She quickly reached the spot she’d reached so many times before. She’d thrown herself against this invisible wall again and again—as herself, as a cat, as an insect, a bird, a bear, anything—but always nausea and pain had thrown her back.

  She slid back into her own form. She wanted to be herself for this, if it worked. She had passed no one on the way here. She took a step forward, then another.

  Nothing happened. Her heart pounded.

  Three more steps. Five. Seven. She broke into a run. Soon, she was under the cover of the woods, of night, racing through them with blind, unbridled elation, guided only by the light of an early moon. A few hundred yards into the forest, she felt a wolf who sensed her elation. He, too, raced with her over and under branch and stream, intoxicated with motion unchecked, laughter in their thoughts.

  It was true. She was—somehow—free.

  Free.

  She could hardly believe it, hardly think; instead, the only expression of the explosion of emotions in her mind came through her body, burning out in sheer speed and movement through the trees. The wolf came nearer and raced by her side for a while before heading back into the forest depths. Time disappeared again, and she had no idea how long it was till she tired enough for thoughts to be thinkable again. They crept back in slowly in the form of questions, like… how could this happen? And when?

  And then a thought stopped her cold in the darkness. If it was true—as it seemed to be—was there something she could do to help Aven?

  She turned on a dime and headed straight back to consult with her father and form a plan.

  She was on her own damn mission this time.

  As she ran back toward the border, she reached out t
o find her father. She needed to know if the prayer was over yet and if he was still in their rooms or if he’d gone somewhere else to look for her. She found him just outside the dormitory rooms.

  I’m on my way back now.

  Okay—it’s over. What the hell is going on?

  I’m not sure. I’ll be there shortly. Meet me at home.

  She took even more care going back. Some of her excitement had burned off, and there were likely more people about now that prayer was over. In her cat form, she slinked under as much ground cover and as many bushes as she could, darting as though she chased some unseen, tiny rodent. When she felt certain no one was in sight, she transformed back into herself in an alley between buildings and walked with as much calm as she could muster back to the dormitories. Of course, it was suspicious to not have been at home during evening prayer, and quite out of her normal routine, but it wasn’t suspicious if no one was paying attention. And why should they be? There was no way for slaves to get free. So there was nothing really to be on the lookout for.

  When she arrived back at home, her father and Luha threw their arms around her as soon as the door was closed.

  “How did you do that!” Luha demanded.

  Father shushed her. “Whisper, dear. What’s going on, meesha? Have you looked at your scar?”

  She pulled the neck of her tunic aside again, pushing her shoulder up through it and showing them. Her father studied it with wonder, grazing his fingers across the surface; Luha stared, perplexed.

  “I don’t know any better than you do. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened to it.”

  They all exchanged glances, unsure of what to do or how to even begin to understand what was happening.

  “Except your last mission,” her father whispered.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I went out. Outside. That’s where I ran—outside the border. Into the woods. Nothing stopped me. It seems to be… gone.”

  Again her father and Luha exchanged wondering glances. They were shocked into silence for a moment, until her father burst into action, darting to the closet where she kept her traveling gear.