The Complete Enslaved Chronicles

by R. K. Thorne

  What had she been thinking? But then, she thought of Dekana, and she kept walking with a slightly faster step.

  “Master of Arms Devol?” She approached the short, bearded man inspecting the practice swords on the right side of the Proving Grounds, hoping she remembered his name correctly. The great, indoor cavern was lit only by three jaunty fires that raged in central braziers, leaving the Grounds dark and the morning sun hidden from view.

  He nodded curtly, glancing up at her, then back down at the sword in his hands. He must have deemed it acceptable because he put it back on the rack. “Ah, Miara, was it? You Prince Aven’s guest?” he said. His voice was deep, gravelly.

  “I am.”

  He held out a hand to shake hers, and she returned it heartily. His skin was appropriately rough for a soldier. “Tell me, my good woman, what brings you to my Proving Grounds?”

  “I would like to learn the sword. Can you tell me who can teach me?”

  “You said you wanted to be a warrior. Not wasting any time, I see.” She nodded. “Why didn’t you ask your friend the prince?”

  She hesitated, then decided on honesty. “I had thought… hoped, perhaps… to surprise him.”

  He barked out a laugh of surprise that settled into a smile. His scruffy red beard and chin jutted to indicate the sword rack. “Choose your weapon.”

  A test? She hoped to learn and hadn’t claimed any prerequisite knowledge. Still. She needed to prove herself to all of them—one step at a time.

  She studied the array of blades. “These are too large,” she said, pointing at the heaviest claymores on the right side. She had seen Menaha do a lot of damage with such weapons, and someone like Aven might wield them well, but that was not playing to her strengths. She hefted a lighter sword on the left side, about the length of her thigh, and examined it.

  He seemed to think she’d made a selection. He picked up a shield beside him and held it out. “And this,” he said gruffly. Or maybe his voice was just always made of rocks.

  She glanced at the shield, then the rack again. “No—this,” she said, choosing a second sword much like the first, but with prongs around the hilt.

  Now his smile broke into a grin. “Oh, I like it. I’ll do ya one better,” he said and leaned back to the other side of the rack, returning with a small ax. “This you can still do your slashin’, but you can also catch, deflect, hook them in the knee. More utility, if you ask me. Although some people prefer the slashin’, and the blockin’ is a bit different.”

  She couldn’t help but grin at the zest in his voice. “Is this my first lesson?”

  “It is now. C’mon over this way now.” He gestured to the other side of the grounds. The area was so dark she couldn’t see where they were headed. “I’ll teach you them all, if you keep showin’ up.” He talked as they walked.

  “Are you—are you going to be practicing?” a timid voice said from the seats.

  She and Devol stopped and turned to see the dvora, fidgeting anxiously in a dress of dull, golden silk. Her cheeks were flushed with—was that embarrassment?

  “I’m just learning,” Miara said lamely, wishing she could have said something more bold, more profound.

  “Her first lesson,” Devol grunted.

  “Might I—could I—” The dvora seemed to want to ask for something but was unsure how to go about it. “Can I watch?” Miara was sure that was not what she had been originally going for. But then again, it was none of her business.

  Devol seemed to be waiting for Miara to answer. “Of course,” she said. Damn, just what she needed. An audience, and a rival, no less. But what else could she say?

  They continued a few dozen feet, and the dvora followed them to a seat nearby. Thel entered the grounds and joined Renala. Great. Didn’t they have anywhere to practice that didn’t invite an audience? Actually, with what she knew about Akaria, that made a sort of sense. And perhaps if people knew she was determined to fight, that might be a good thing.

  Not until Miara had neared the end of the grounds did she see what they were headed for. Effigies made of straw, stuffing, and wood awaited them, looking a little slouched, beaten, and worse for the wear: practice dummies.

  Lord Dyon stopped short on the threshold, his arms full of documents, and stared. Aven met his gaze. “What is it?”

  “It’s just good to see you back, that’s all. Wasn’t sure that was going to happen,” Dyon said.

  Aven suppressed a smile, and they set to work. And to think he’d thought Dyon a maddening curmudgeon. How things had changed, perhaps for both of them. Unpacking a dozen documents, Lord Dyon squinted at the first name on the list of warden aspirants and read it carefully to Aven. “Zedagen, Arnov. Of Anonil, Territory Gilaren.”

  Aven ran down his list of questions about the candidate, including a few new ones that raised Dyon’s brow. The old buzzard didn’t criticize, though, so he must have approved. After being nominated by their territories, aspirants were tested by a slew of generals, Dyon, Dev, and others, and the results handed off to Aven and his father for the final selections.

  After he’d graduated from warden training himself, he’d taken on most of the responsibility for these reviews. He’d never worried too hard about them, as the wardens simply wanted the best. Some candidates came in with superior skills in a variety of things. He might have to make a tough choice between one who excelled at archery but failed at everything else and another who was above average in many things, but he had never thought too deeply beyond the measures of the tests concocted by the generals and military training men.

  “Rogonen, Adia. Of Panar, Territory Numaren.”

  And now, he had to wonder. Everything seemed different now. He had not yet seen war, but they were in one, like it or not. He’d caught the smell of it in the burned flesh of his shoulder. Was there something more he should have been searching for? Something deeper? What if these people were the ones to make the difference in the end, in a conflict with Kavanar?

  “Westfar, Pel. Of Senata, Territory Shansaren.”

  His context was now completely different. Sure, these aspirants knew weapons. They excelled at speed and strength. Many were well trained, and those who weren’t had exceptional natural talent. But had he paid enough attention to if they were smart? Adaptable?

  What would they do if they encountered a fireball aimed at their head? Which test could show him that?

  “Jonquin, Sania. Of Panar, Territory Numaren.”

  After they’d gotten through reviewing the aspirants, plenty of other work awaited. Generals in Shansaren requested funds for new armor. The archery units sought review of their new candidates for leaders, as one of their great mentors had retired, leaving a line of promotions to sort out in her wake. One cavalry unit had updates on horses retired and acquired and proposals for the spring. It hadn’t been long, but the work had been set aside before his little “trip” because of all the gatherings with the Takaran delegates. And now it absolutely had to be done.

  Akaria had its own military class, with soldiers employed and supported directly by the king. The arrangement was one of the things that made Akaria stronger than its neighbors. It was easy for the surrounding kingdoms to recognize the benefits of a dedicated martial force—and a lot harder to build one. Aven’s ancestors had convinced enough members of the richest and most powerful families to actually send the gold to pay, support, train, and feed enough men and women to make a significant standing army, and that was the real achievement they all clung to. In spite of the fairly obvious recipe for martial superiority, their neighbors had not done the same.

  Then again, if everyone turned on him and his father because he’d been born a mage, Akaria could end up in exactly the same weakened situation—or worse. He had to believe that the territories would put more importance on Akaria’s strength and safety than they did on Aven being born able to blow some leaves around in the wind without any hands. He was the same man they’d always known. He did the same things he’d
always done. Well, mostly. He loved Akaria more than almost anything. He had to hope that meant something.

  But, well—it remained to be seen. At least no one had tried to exile him yet.

  A knock on the door. Aven glanced at Dyon. “It’s enough,” the lord relented. “At least the young ones will get their promotion news.”

  “We can do more tomorrow,” Aven said. Then he nodded to the soldier at the entry to open the door while Dyon organized his various vellums, parchments, and papers and piled them up to go.

  Teron poked his head in the doorway.

  “By my ancestors, you’re still here?” Aven said, and Teron grinned in reply. “Come, come. I’m kidding. I’d heard. But you weren’t at dinner yesterday?”

  Teron came in and gave a small bow, and Jerrin hovered behind him. Aven waved both men in, and they sat down before the desk Aven worked at. It wasn’t really his desk, as much it was a center of military affairs. But Aven ended up using it most, as that was one of the duties his father had assigned him. It could have been assigned to Thel or more likely Dom, or any other lord, lady, or warden. But his father had given it to him to prepare him.

  “The map—” Aven started, unsure of where to begin. Then he stopped and picked up the book Teron had given him. “Did you know what this was?”

  Teron shrugged noncommittally, but smiled.

  “What about this?” He opened the book and unfolded the star map.

  Teron shrugged again.

  “You told my mother you were looking forward to talking to me about it.” Aven narrowed his eyes at him as Teron’s smile broadened. “So—let’s talk.”

  “I had a feeling it might come in handy to someone. I hoped you were that someone,” Teron said, still evasive.

  “You said as much when you gave it to me.”

  Sensing Aven’s slight annoyance, Jerrin put his hand on Teron’s arm. “It’s time, Son.”

  “Son?” Aven looked from one to the other. How—and why?—had they avoided disclosing that little tidbit?

  Still—Teron hesitated. He looked to his lap and didn’t meet Aven’s eyes.

  “Well, it did come in handy,” Aven said softly. “It saved my life and kept me from joining the ranks of Kavanar’s slaves.”

  Teron looked up in surprise.

  “I owe you a great debt. More than I can ever repay. But I can try. What can I do?”

  “Is the map—” Teron started, then hesitated, then seemed to throw caution to the wind. “I didn’t know what the map was. I did have a feeling. I thought maybe the map was air magic. It looked like it might be one of Zaera’s ancient maps, or a copy of one.”

  “Zaera?”

  “A mage of the Dark Days, one of those who commandeered the mind of the king,” Jerrin said gravely. “A great villain, some say. Others disagree.”

  “I had researched her past, looking for clues—” Teron started.

  “And what reason did you have to research her past?” Aven said, hoping they would finally spit it out.

  Teron looked at Jerrin, clearly afraid. Jerrin jerked a finger toward Aven as if to say, out with it. Teron hung his head.

  “Which one of you is a mage? Or is it both of you? Or your whole delegation?”

  Jerrin shook his head, but looked relieved Aven had figured it out. “My son—and my wife.”

  Jerrin had come to Akaria without any wife. Many Devoted dwelt in Takar, and the elder Devoted even made their home in the temple there. Was the woman even still alive? Was this why they were afraid?

  “And where is she?”

  “We don’t know,” Teron whispered. “I’ve tried, but I can’t… Magic is a death sentence in Takar. I don’t know any spells… I’ve tried anyway, but…”

  “We think she is in Kavanar.” Jerrin’s jaw was clenched, tense. “That, or dead.”

  Well, they were in luck. But they didn’t know it yet. “Why did you come here? Was it really only as part of the delegation?” Aven said.

  “We hoped to find a way to stay,” Jerrin said quickly. “But Takar watches us even from afar. And there is no reason—”

  “I owe you both my life—and far more than that. I will gladly grant you residence in Akaria as full citizens or permanent delegates if you wish.” Their surprised stares were more reward than any cheers he could have hoped for.

  Finally, Jerrin recovered first and snorted. “Well—you were right that burying your nose in all those books finally came in handy.” He clapped Teron on the back, which seemed to finally snap him out of his stunned state.

  “But… why the fight?” Aven said to Jerrin, since he seemed to be far more communicative at this moment. The fight in the Proving Grounds on that fateful day seemed like a lifetime ago. “Was it really that you simply wanted to spar?”

  “I thought you were a mage, but I was afraid I was wrong. I have never been trained—” Teron sputtered.

  “Well, that makes two of us.”

  “I thought I might be able to see some evidence if I stirred up some benign trouble,” Jerrin finished.

  Aven smiled ruefully. “Well, you were right. It worked. Unfortunately, the trouble stirred up was not entirely benign, as that Devoted Knight was watching as well.”

  Teron scowled. “We heard. She told us before she left. Narrow-minded fools, all of them. I needed to give someone the book I’d found in your library. Someone with more ability than I to figure out what it meant. I needed to know if it could help us find Mother.” Teron’s voice faltered, and he put his head in his hands to try to recover his composure.

  Aven took a deep breath. These men weren’t diplomats, more like refugees. He would never have guessed. What if he had never met Miara? What if he had refused to even fight Jerrin that day? How long till he would have sent them packing back toward a death sentence?

  He caught the eye of the guard again at the door. “Send for Fayton, please.” With a crisp nod, he stepped out to send for the steward.

  “This evening, I am convening a group of freemages of Akaria. It would be my pleasure to have you in attendance, if you are not previously engaged.” He smiled. The unnecessarily honeyed words of diplomacy were a touch of humor. He hoped they would calm Teron. But he also hoped it would be an important occasion.

  Mages of Akaria had not gathered together openly in generations. Well, this gathering would not be entirely open. He was only telling those he knew he could trust. But still. Many of them would be revealing that they were mages to those in attendance, and all of them were taking a risk.

  Teron looked to his father.

  “Teron will join you,” Jerrin said, voice grave again. “And I would, if you’ll have me, although I’m not a mage.”

  Aven gave a crisp nod. “Yes, come. Excellent. Now, the remaining matter is—do you wish to stay in Akaria?”

  “Of course we do—” Teron started.

  “As permanent diplomats or citizens?”

  Jerrin eyed Teron. “We will have no support system here, no occupation. Only what we’ve saved. They do not need us as handshakers and brandy drinkers.”

  Aven wondered how they had convinced anyone in Takar that they had needed the duo as handshakers or brandy drinkers. But he was glad they had.

  “Can you separate from them politically? Will they take offense?”

  Jerrin shook his head. “We were chosen for the Akarian delegation very specifically. Old, crusty warriors like me are not well respected among Takarans. Our people honor peace, we seek enlightenment. I like beating things with a mace. They thought you might like me.”

  Aven smiled. “Well, then they are correct. But not for the reasons they thought, eh?” His smile widened. “And I knew you were holding out on me, saying you had no preference. It’s maces next time, old man.” Jerrin snorted. Aven spoke as he straightened the papers on the desk. “I can certainly help you find a way to make a living. I wouldn’t be doing much to repay my debt if I left you to die in squalor, now would I?” That would probably also be against th
e Code, if not the Way as well. “There’s the army, the mines and refineries, the upkeep of this hold at the bare minimum. Hell, there’s even a mage that has two apprentices he supports. We’ll find you something.”

  Jerrin nodded. “It would be nice not to take advantage of your hospitality any longer. It’s been too long. I am truly sorry for that.”

  “We had no other option.” Teron straightened.

  Aven waved it off. “It’s settled. See you this evening?” He stood. They took the hint and stood as well, and they all strode to the door together. “I’ll speak with my head steward Fayton—he’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Teron said, bowing deeper than Aven could remember.

  “No,” Aven said. “Thank you, my friend.”

  The two men left. Aven turned to hurry and finish his work. He needed to find Miara and make sure her morning had gone all right. He needed to eat. He needed to review these mine statements and inventory lists. He needed to look at the updated maps of Anonil and Panar. He needed to think of a way to find Teron’s mother, a needle in the haystack of Mage Hall.

  He needed to get all this work out of the way so he could focus on the real issue—were they truly ready for this war with Kavanar? Even if he could get them all to quit squabbling and support him, he was not so sure.

  Jaena ducked inside the stables when she arrived, looking for a nook to hide her quarry. Where could she hide this damned thing that none of them would expect? Mage Hall was not very big. How long would it take them to simply canvas the area, look at every corner and cobweb?

  She glanced around. The stables were relatively quiet now, only one mage bringing a horse back into its stall at the moment. The rest of the stalls were empty—out in the fields or at work some other way. Burying the brand under horseshit sounded like a fair treatment of the wretched thing. It was a start.