The Complete Enslaved Chronicles

by R. K. Thorne

  “Oh, shut it, Derk,” Siliana grunted. Of course, he didn’t listen. But the two mages had gotten far enough ahead of Miara and Aven that she couldn’t hear them anymore. She leaned heavily on Aven too. This once she had an excuse, although she glanced nervously around, wary of disapproving glares from the king. But Aven’s father appeared to be gone, headed inside more quickly than the rest.

  Together she and Aven walked inside. Worrying about what her audience might think must have taken more out of Miara than she’d thought. She wanted to sleep for days. Shouldn’t she have more energy back by now?

  Something niggled at her about this new storm. It felt off. Too sudden. She stopped in the entryway and peered back at the sky.

  “What is it?” Aven said.

  “Something’s not right with this storm,” she whispered back to him. “Can you feel anything?” She tried to reach out, into the clouds, down the hills. Was someone building this storm? She couldn’t feel it as directly as an air mage would, and Aven likely hadn’t learned how yet.

  “There is—something,” Aven said slowly. “Someone?”

  Who could be doing this? And for what purpose? She glanced around. Wunik had watched them like a doting tutor, and he had followed Siliana inside. Her eyes caught on Elise, who saw them stopped and came over. “Something’s not right with this storm,” Miara repeated to her. “Do you feel it?”

  Elise frowned. “Derk—”

  Miara shook her head. “He claimed it was not his doing just a moment ago. Besides, he’s hardly even winded. He wanted to make sure he had every chance to show off. He wouldn’t risk screwing up and getting shot by an arrow to brew this up after everyone had gone inside.”

  “But… who? Or why?”

  Miara shook her head. “I don’t know, but let’s get inside.”

  Tharomar stoked the coals of the hearth and carefully placed the single shaft of wheat into the embers. A flicker of light and smoke went up, and he dropped to his knees in the smithy, offering up the morning’s devotions to Nefrana.

  He felt the holy connection open, divine joy and encouragement bathing him from within. He sighed with relief. Some days he needed to feel the gods more than others.

  The mage had not asked about any altar, and he did not expect she would. She showed no signs of being the pious type, even when the subject of the temple came up. He couldn’t blame her. If his only experience of Nefrana’s favor had been the Devoted burning a hole in his shoulder and making him a slave, he would probably be pretty unenthusiastic too.

  But if she would not pray for herself, he could pray on her behalf.

  Only luck had helped him find her. He had had no idea where or how she’d been hiding under that bridge, but he’d nearly given up and turned back toward town. When those Devoted had come knocking on doors, he’d gone hunting to see if he could find whoever they were looking for first.

  The priestesses would appreciate this news, even if the mage had fled by the time he returned. He’d been on assignment for his order here for nigh on three years now, and he had not yet encountered a mage he could actually help. They were all already enslaved, this close to Mage Hall. The Order of the Silver Grove was not a particularly patient group of women, and he wasn’t sure how long they would let him hold this location. They’d argued it was too risky in the first place. But Tharomar was the most battle hardened of any of their order—well, street hardened, anyway—and when a smith had died and bequeathed his smithy to the order, Tharomar had argued it was not an opportunity they could pass up. Plus, it had made them more money than most locations, since he was in fact a half-decent blacksmith.

  So much time had passed, though, that some days he forgot his mission altogether. Some days he forgot that he was anything more than a small-town blacksmith for these farms.

  The sight of Devoted banging on his door had been enough of a reminder, though. Those hoods had called up memories he had spent a long time pushing away. He’d known many in the streets that had fallen to their brutality, as well as others who had fallen to those who ruled Evrical with more force than persuasion.

  Sasha’s face sprang to mind, eyes wide with surprise, blood on the cobblestones. He pushed the memory back down again. Not now. Well, maybe just a prayer in her memory.

  He had to get more of the mage’s story out of her before he explained this to her. She hadn’t even told him her own name. If she proved worthy, he might be able to help her completely evade them. Were she a criminal, well, he would never turn her in to the likes of them, but he couldn’t be so sure it was Nefrana’s will to help her either. Still, she had seemed like a sweet person, quiet but confident in her way. Appropriately wary of him, but also… He had long ago set his course on a mission to help people like her, but he was starting to wonder if that was his only reason for charming her into his home. And his bed, for that matter.

  The hot energy of the hearth surrounded him as it began heating up for the day’s work. They’d take a quick meal, and then he had work to do. But before then he always let the hearth burn in honor of the great holy three for a few minutes, a few prayers.

  He tossed in a rose petal for Anara now, and spoke her prayers, plus a few invocations of healing for the girl and protection for Nemin. They’d probably need it.

  Would she even be in the house when he returned? She would have bolted away at first sight of him, if it weren’t for that ankle. He found himself feeling a little glad that the injury had waylaid her, and then he realized that was a horrible thought. She’d probably be off and out of the Devoted’s clutches by now, if it weren’t for that.

  Was that really true? On the road, they’d probably have found her. Did she have the skill to get to the forest, to leave no trails even in a wheat field? To outrun both men and the dogs he’d seen? She didn’t seem the type. Her athletic frame seemed more strong than nimble.

  Was she an innocent? A charlatan? A thief? A murderer?

  You need to know more about her before you go thinking about her athletic frame, he told himself. He couldn’t help criminals. The order only had so many resources and kept themselves secret, staying small to keep themselves that way. Being enemies of the Devoted was a dangerous thing to be. Temple priestesses hid mages from those bastards when they could. Of course, they encouraged them not to use their magic or risk corrupting their souls. But it was a free choice, something only the mages could decide for themselves. He sighed, watching the coals burn. One day, his brothers and sisters would stop the Devoted forever. Someday soon, the priestesses would find a way.

  Perhaps he could even help his mage if she had done something. Escaping them this close to Mage Hall would be extraordinarily difficult. No one deserved to be enslaved. Or any of the other things the Devoted meted out to mages they captured.

  As the last part of his ritual, he tossed in a nail for the god Mastikos. Mastikos received little worship in these regions compared to the two goddesses, but their only god of the trio was important nonetheless. The priestesses taught the value of all aspects of divinity, not just Nefrana’s golden light, as well as all the holy languages, the ancient alphabets. He would make a fine priest, if he chose.

  He was something like a priest, in his own way, although he had no intention of taking any vows of celibacy anytime soon. His dreams the night before had been proof enough of that.

  He shook his head at himself. He also had far more important work to do in Nefrana’s name than coordinate worship in the temple. The idea felt more like fact than conviction, like something he could sense. Even now, bathed in the holy connection, something somewhere urged him on.

  Important work waited. Here. Now. The mage.

  Why did his thoughts stray so easily to her? Were they really pushing him toward helping her, or was it just his own mind wandering back, as mischievous as his dreams? Was she a merchant, as she claimed? Perhaps she had been in the past. Had she come from Mage Hall itself and escaped, or was it merely a terrible coincidence that they hunted her so close
to this evil place?

  Had she gotten away, or had she not yet been captured? That was the real question, the real answer he needed to wheedle out of her. If she had been branded, there was less that he could do, if he could help her at all. But was it even possible for them to escape while branded? He thought not.

  The nail was red-hot. He had been lost in his thoughts. Standing, he murmured the final holy words. With tongs, he lifted out the nail and placed it aside.

  He said the last remaining prayer sadly, the holy connection reluctantly closing. He set off with a spring in his step for the cold cellar behind the house, gathering cheese and a slab of smoked meat. What did he have to be springing about? He shook his head at himself.

  When he opened the door, she whirled, expression sheepish. She stood by his cupboard, leaning on her good foot. “I—uh—put back the salve.”

  He said nothing but smiled, wordlessly putting the cheese and meat on the table. Silence was often the best way to get more information. Did she think he might worry she’d stolen something? Had she been stealing something? He didn’t think of any of these things as his. They were all given to him, mostly unearned, by the order. They were all simply in service of the mission and therefore ultimately free to her to take. But of course, she didn’t know that yet.

  “Are these… your books?”

  Ah, was that what the fuss was about? “Yes.”

  She eagerly examined their spines. “You are a strange fellow.”

  He snorted. “You’re not the first to tell me that.”

  “How many other blacksmiths do you know who’ve read The Book of the Vigilant?”

  He laughed outright. A clue for her. What would she make of it? The books were one of the few things he kept that hinted there might be more to this story than that of a simple blacksmith. Mostly, he couldn’t manage to part with either the beautifully crafted leather or the precious knowledge. “You told me I was different, I didn’t deny it.”

  She smiled and returned to looking at the books.

  “Have you read it?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The Book.”

  “Oh. No.” Of course not, her tone said. Who read obscure philosophical texts for fun? Crazy blacksmiths? And she was right. Why the hell did he feel disappointed by the knowledge? He already knew she wasn’t the religious type, and he could thank the Devoted for that. Of course, the volume spoke mostly on the value of integrity, the nature of suffering. It was an important work in ethical and spiritual understanding, not just another tome of predictable parables. Although he liked those too.

  And he was staring at her back like an idiot. He strode to her side and reached to the top of the cupboard, where his remaining stash of bread lay wrapped in linen. Two loaves still—plenty left until next market day. Then, bread in hand, he offered her his arm. She hobbled with surprising speed with his assistance, and they sat and began to eat.

  He’d waited long enough. Time to get the truth out of her. “You know, you haven’t told me your name,” he began. That seemed like a fair start.

  Was that a blush? She hesitated. “Jaena.” It had the ring of truth to it.

  “Well, you know all about my childhood—”

  “Hardly.”

  “—what about yours?” How deep did her cover story go? How good of a liar was she going to be? She didn’t seem like much of one, compared to the many thieves and charlatans he’d known in the past. But sometimes that, too, was an act.

  Her brown skin faded a little, lost some of its rosy, blushing hue. He smiled to soften the question. He was just making conversation, after all, right? But he would get his answers out of her today. Too much time had already passed. “My father—is a diplomat in Hepan. But I always hoped to be a merchant. No endless parades of silly affairs, fancy festivals, and interminable banquets if I can avoid it, thank you very much.” She sounded like she’d sat through more than a few of those. If this was a lie, she was very convincing. “I am starting my own shop with the help of my brother. Starting off on this journey, looking for items to trade back in Hepan.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Not even a native to Kavanar? How strange. And even as a foreigner, many would guess she’d be from Farsa from the darkness of her skin. She probably got that a lot, but she had no touch of the relaxed, jovial culture of the gulf about her either. “Hepan? You’re a long way from there, indeed.”

  Her face fell. “Is it so far?”

  “Well, we are much closer to Akaria. But if you’ve come on foot from Hepan, you must know how long it’s taken you better than I.”

  She tore her gaze away and took a hasty bite of a hunk of bread. Yes, she had not come directly from Hepan on foot. He let none of his knowledge show. He knew he shouldn’t even have called out the discrepancy, as it could put her on the defensive, but he’d been unable to resist. He would stop there, though. He’d been a street rat long enough to learn to hide a myriad of emotions on his face, and that calling people out on their lies was not always the fastest path to the truth.

  “We’re close to Akaria, though. With a horse, you can be in Anonil in a day’s ride.” Her face brightened at that. Anonil was certainly her real destination, if everything else in her story was falsified. He thought much of it was true, though. Maybe he was merely sensing an important omission?

  “Do you have a horse?” she asked.

  He nodded, pretending not to notice the edge of excitement in her voice. “Oh, yes. A good one, strong enough to pull a wagon.”

  “Where do you keep it? I’ve… always loved horses. I didn’t see a stable about.”

  Nice try, but you’re not getting away without me that easily, he thought. He stifled a laugh and realized even his smile was probably letting on too much. “Oh, nearby,” he said as casually as he could. “Done eating? Good. Now—how about we look at that craft work I mentioned? I’ve got a few things worth selling, I’m sure.”

  She nodded reluctantly and took another too-long gulp of mead.

  Thel ran up to them, Elise tagging alongside him. “Something’s wrong,” he said breathlessly.

  Aven and Miara had hung back, trying to figure out the storm and failing. “Wrong with what?” Aven said.

  “The mountain.” Thel’s eyes were trained on Miara.

  This was very, very bad. She pushed away from Aven’s embrace, grabbed Thel’s hand, and pressed it against the wall. “Close your eyes,” she ordered. He complied. “Feel for the mountain—the heartbeat, the breath of it.” He nodded. His thin lips parted as she knew he was starting to sense it. “Now try to expand out, feel the rock in larger and larger areas. Which direction is the problem?”

  “Like you’re looking out over the horizon,” Elise chimed in, “but one inside your head. Go out farther and farther, as far as you can.”

  “You feel it? Something off?” Miara wished at least one of them knew this art. Damn arrogant fools, living under here with no defense whatsoever.

  He nodded. “Vibrations. Something is—shaking. It’s unnatural. It’s—angry. The rock is angry. It’s been this way for ages. It doesn’t want to be disturbed. It’s… that way, I think?” He pointed back toward the storm—and the main entrance to Estun.

  She looked sharply from Aven to Elise and back. “This is the area of the hold that’s farthest from the Great Stone, correct?”

  Aven nodded.

  “And where are the most people gathered?”

  “Well… What are you getting at?”

  “If I wanted to do the most damage—kill the most people—and do it farthest from the Stone so I had the least resistance—”

  Aven’s gaze snapped to his mother. “The gate.”

  Elise nodded.

  “Send word,” Miara snapped. “Tell them to get out of there. Go out in the rain or wherever—but out of the mountain.”

  Aven didn’t exactly listen. He turned and ran back toward the gate.

  “Aven!” she shouted, reaching after him.

  A h
and on her shoulder stopped her. Thel’s eyes had snapped open. “We need to get back. Come on.” His voice was deadly serious, a tone she hadn’t heard it take before.

  “But Aven—” Elise started.

  “Will kill me if I let you two get crushed along with him.” He ushered them both back, eying the ceiling. Miara thought she could hear a distant rumbling. The thunder from the storm, or something else? A hundred paces back, they found an archway of keystone granite, more separate from the mountain. “Here,” he said. “This rock is different from the others, and hopefully far enough away.”

  Miara looked back down the hallway, searching for Aven’s running form. “Are there other exits out?”

  Elise frowned. “Of course. Three. Not all convenient to travel, but they are there.” She glanced around, but it appeared to be just the three of them. “There are also two others known only to the king.” Her voice implied that perhaps others knew—her, Thel, Aven? Were there really even only two? The important part was that there were escape routes, and they were not all going to suffocate down here. She hoped.

  Wunik trotted up beside them, spectacularly out of breath. “I heard shouting. What’s wrong?”

  “The mountain—” Thel started but was cut off by a sharp crack splitting the air.

  “Aven!” Miara shouted into the dark, empty hallway in spite of herself and their stupid promises for secrecy. What would that matter if they were all dead?

  Derk caught up to them. Others. She glanced at them in annoyance. Lady Toyl and one of her guards. Dvora Renala. What were they doing here? They were no help.

  “They’re attacking the mountain,” she said as if only to Wunik.