Epistem- Rise of the Slave King's Heir

by Jani Griot

  “Hmm,” Ezra murmured.

  She said nothing for a moment, only clicked her tongue; an audible countdown to her sorting out my punishment. I grew more nervous, my body registering a physical language I had never been tutored in.

  My small mind thought only of small punishments. But the heiress had something far grander in mind for me. For, where I lacked creativity, she did not. Where I clung to trials of the past, she would not. She spoke in a way that indicated my next punishment would differ from those previous.

  She spoke in full sentences instead of the individual word commands with which I was familiar. There was no pointing or snapping, just long, convoluted groups of words raining down upon me.

  “The neighboring Honorborn and noble families will be here tomorrow for the Slave Games. I doubt Father will mind me adding you to the fray,” she said. The smile in the heiress’ voice was notable; it was intended to hide what I assumed were her more insidious thoughts.

  I had no clue what her words meant. I did my best to look as busy as possible, vigorously scrubbing the stones.

  “Father will love this,” Ezra proclaimed. She kicked over my water bucket and walked down the long hall.

  True panic set in when I realized she hadn't commanded me to the lashing post. Would she have someone come for me?

  “I’ll let the cat bathe in curiosity before it kills him,” Ezra said with a treacherous lilt to her words. Her soft yet heartless laugh echoed down the hall, back to me.

  Ezra’s laugh bore into my mind and later kept me from sleep. Sand blew into my mouth, prompting me to cough. I wondered why they wouldn’t give us walls. I turned onto my other side to provide respite for my sore throat. One of the nearby nameless kicked me, perhaps to tell me to stop coughing. Or any other reason they deemed necessary.

  I opened my eyes and winced. My heart sank as I watched the sun crest the horizon; it was the event I’d dreaded all night. The sun’s rays warmed my face. I exhaled slowly. I wasn’t unfamiliar with stepping into the sunlight after a night of unrest in the dark.

  Elemental Flares

  Ezra floated through the library as her father worked silently on the opposite end of the room. She practiced distorting gravity using a rune of weightlessness as a means of focus. She kicked off the edge of a table, pushing against the flat surface to change her direction. Books drifted through the air around her head. She controlled their movements using only her background thoughts, which seemed just as adrift as the tomes. Pages turned as she read them while she flew between the four levels of the castle’s library.

  “What is the rune that allows for the transference of physical energy into mental energy?” asked Ochloc, not looking up from his work.

  She snorted. “I’m not Aemillious.” Annoyed at such a comparison between herself and her brother, Ezra was petulantly silent until her irritation subsided.

  “Father, can we please skip the basics today?” she asked.

  The king looked up to see his daughter sitting on a banister three levels above him. He returned the crass snort his daughter had given moments prior, before looking back down at his work. He couldn’t help but regret that he’d passed down such a haughty trait to her.

  Ochloc waved his hand, gesturing toward the fireplace. “Okay then, start a fire using the runes of friction, heat, and air. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  The king summoned three illuminated runes, which flashed in the palm of his hand. The brightness disappeared quickly as the fireplace alighted, only to be extinguished before the heat of the flames could warm the stones of the floor. Ezra was left puzzled, as she had no time to decipher the ancient inscriptions of univers.

  “Why can’t I just use the rune of fire and—” Ezra stopped talking the moment her father’s eyebrow rose. She looked away from the man and toward the fireplace, lifting her palm upward toward the planks.

  The first rune—an air rune, which resembled twin tornadoes twisting around one another—centered itself amongst the others in her hand.

  The second rune appeared. Wavy parallel lines rippled slowly, stacked four deep atop one another in a static pattern. The heat rune flickered in and out as Ezra’s concentration wavered between the air and heat rune. Ochloc looked up.

  “I do wonder, my fledgling daughter, if you are yet capable of splitting your mental processes three times,” he said. Ezra’s attention didn’t waver, nor would she allow his words to dig at her.

  “Focus, child,” mumbled Ochloc.

  Ezra smiled as the wooden planks shifted between the first two runes; heat and air indeed gathered at her focal point. Her father’s face, his eyes alight with both fire and pride, revealed she’d done well.

  Elementalists were only as strong as the runes they could mentally call forth. The only thing that could circumnavigate that fact were physical constructs—the Elementalist gauntlets forged by the gods. Gifts left behind when the gods still felt cherished by the kingdoms. Instead of using the light within to power the symbols of Arcana (which had come to be known as runes); the gauntlets made it so that their wielders’ thoughts bended the laws of univers. Not many knew the side effects of using such weapons without being an actual god.

  Ochloc did. This was why he chose to teach his daughter the least damaging way to perform within the laws of univers. His daughter had been right about the fire rune. It was far simpler to use.

  “Come on,” said Ezra through gritted teeth. She slid off the banister and Ochloc gaped at her. Ezra laughed at her father’s surprise that she was still channeling the rune of weightlessness. The rune glimmered in her off hand, while she put herself in the air above the fireplace. Ochloc, who tended to suppress his reactions, couldn’t hide his shock when the air shifted in the room above him for a single second. Long enough to keep Ezra in place, avoiding a departure from her target. Had she accomplished such a feat through manipulation of the rune of air or weightlessness, or maybe both? Could someone so youthful even channel a fourth rune?

  The rune of friction slid into place with the row of lighted symbols displayed on the palm of her dominant hand. The symbol was that of an X; both lines spinning in opposing directions. The burst of power and flames in the fireplace set the immediate area ablaze, and sent Ezra falling down many stories of the library.

  Ochloc flashed to the position below Ezra and caught her. He had felt it the moment she lost consciousness. He wiped thick beads of sweat free of her face as her lashes fluttered open sporadically. He saw only the whites of her eyes as the power of univers overloaded her senses, leaving her shaking uncontrollably.

  “Breathe, daughter,” was all his frantic mind could muster as panic set in. Ezra may have been one of the most powerful Elementalists born in generations, but it was that same strength that also imperiled her life.

  Ochloc rubbed her arms and legs, trying to get her skin to release the abundance of energy from her blood stream. Her veins shone with a luminous blue light that threatened to devour her from the inside out. When one lacked the blood of the gods, this beautifully lethal reaction was common. Or, in the princess’s case, a lack of enough gods’ blood.

  “Breathe,” he repeated. Ezra’s body thrummed with power. The brilliant light emptied from her veins. Her flesh was now awash with it.

  The room exploded with the energy Ezra held within her. Books flew off shelves. Doors and windows burst open. All fires—the fireplace, lanterns, and candles alike—flickered out as Ochloc was flung across the room. Both father and daughter sat up. They shared bewildered expressions. Ochloc glanced at the gauntlets that lay on his desk before his gaze fell back upon his daughter.

  He rose to his feet. “Do you see why you must practice, daughter?” Ezra looked away, clearly pained, nodding slightly in response. Her father returned to his desk while a legion of slaves ran in to clean up the carnage.

  The men and woman scurried about the room and quickly finished the tasks at hand. None dare look at the girl as she sat on the floor. Ochloc’s daughter was public
ly harsh enough with her personal slave that many of the others feared and often avoided her.

  She crossed her arms, narrowly avoiding the urge to spit as she surveyed the mass of insectile beings who buzzed this way and that. They reminded her of the slave who had ruined her life. Ochloc had long ago told her that she could not kill the boy, but after what the young man had done during their adolescence, she would never let go of her hostility toward him.

  Ezra stared at the king. “I want to put my slave up as fodder tomorrow. Our guests have strong candidates and the rules say that I can be your proxy if you’re challenged.”

  Ochloc looked away from his work to see Ezra, still on the floor, pouting. Agitation filled him, knowing why she wanted to serve the boy up as an appetizer for his enemies.

  The Honorborn traditions had long been soaked in customs that could not be broken. The slave he had given his daughter was no more than a simple manor slave—on the surface. But that appearance could only remain if he kept the boy’s old blood cold, silent, and beaten from existence.

  “A cleaning slave is not for combat,” Ochloc stated. His daughter looked at him with frustration. She was old enough to be courted, and the king could see the effects of her age on her mental state. She could not imagine why killing a boy who served at her every whim could be a problem, especially due to a kiss that left her unsavory in the minds of the court. She was a princess; it was not unusual for someone who was spoon-fed the world to feel entitled to every desire, yet the king was troubled watching her long-held grudge turn into murderous intent at such a young age.

  “So, you’re going to allow the other nobles to gossip? Continue calling me ‘the slave princess’,” said Ezra. Her face became dark as did her thoughts. Anger warped her countenance to match what was inside.

  Ochloc looked casually between his work and Ezra. “What happened to Carter’s boy? You two seemed interested in one another,” he murmured.

  His daughter’s eyes shot toward him. To his surprise, he felt a tinge of unease at that glance. If she were to grow any more powerful, he may very well become fearful of her.

  “He’s the most wonderful person I have met in my entire life, Father, I thought I had already told you?”

  Ochloc put down his papers to look at Ezra; he could practically feel the waves of sarcasm rolling from her body as she spoke.

  Ezra stared her father down. “Besides, I have set the Clock’s wagons on fire. How was I to distinguish between Carter’s blood burgundy and the Clock’s royal red?”

  The king erupted into laughter after a moment of silence, remembering how much either of those two families could claim from his treasury at any moment. Debt was debt.

  “You couldn’t have waited?” asked the king, eyeing the paper on his desk with a different level of interest. The document held the Clock’s family seal and was more than likely some sort of formal invoice.

  “The games start tomorrow, and we have an opportunity to set things right,” said the king who glanced at the wall that held his wife’s portrait.

  His daughter took the gesture as something that correlated with her mother’s death. She looked upon the portrait of the crimson-eyed woman. Ezra was every bit as intelligent as her mother, yet she remained unaware of the secrets hidden beyond those red eyes.

  “If Mother were here…” started Ezra. The moment the king looked at her she stopped speaking. His glare a nocked arrow. Ezra looked away. Silence filled the room as the slaves exited, leaving father and daughter alone.

  “Your mother saved that boy’s life before you’d left the womb. She said that the boy would protect you always.” The king rolled his eyes then broke the seal of the letter on his desk.

  “So no, I will not kill the boy. You may be too young to understand this, but his value lies in his subjugation. Try me on this, daughter, and we shall both come to regret it.” He quickly read the letter then set it ablaze. He clenched his teeth, examining his daughter. The man knew her well; he could decode the lines of her face like a secret language.

  Ezra seemed insistent that her silence last nearly a full cycle before she responded. “Yes, Father.” The king saw the resistance in her gaze, knowing he hadn’t heard the last of this.

  He had long ago given up on his daughter being chased, realizing just how much her power would dissuade suitors. She assumed the over-the-shoulder glances and whispers whenever she entered or exited a room were attributed to that event in her adolescence—a slave boy kissing her on the cheek while she’d cried. Rather, it was her ability to physically or mentally throw a carriage off the mountainsides or to set a fleet of wagons on fire with a snap of her fingers. The king sighed deeply as he looked at her.

  “Your time will come, daughter, when you will show the lands your wealth and power. The Carter boy will realize his mistake. Worrying is a weakness, remember that,” said the king, finally finding it within himself to unclench his jaw. He would find a way, someday, to deal with her overdramatizations and petulance, but for now, soothing words would have to do.

  Ezra rose and strode toward the door as her father returned to his work, not hearing the words she mumbled as she reached the threshold.

  “Either the slave that plagues me dies by your hands, Father, or I will handle it myself.”

  The Slave Games

  Heat surged through my arms as I scrubbed. My muscles burned, and I had only been working long enough for the sun to leave the horizon and touch the apex of the sky. I passed the darkening cloth from hand to hand as I worked. I didn’t know what dread was then. But I have long since learned of the many ways it can creep up one’s spine, and how far it can reach.

  I haven't forgotten about you, my little scapegrace, said Ezra.

  Ezra’s words boomed, as if she stood over me. I glanced back, hoping she wasn't. Memories of her high-heeled boots digging into my lower back tormented me. I had been told to clean every inch of the grand hall entrance by an Elder Slave. Only the elders were taught the full structure of language, or at least enough to know how to use it. They were also given names, an act wrought with much hesitation, for names held power. Power the nameless of previous generations—especially my own—would never know. To be acknowledged as more than a thing.

  To my relief, no one was there. I cleaned in slow circles, rotating in precise movements, only looking up as far as I dared to map out my surroundings.

  A shrill voice ripped into my mind.

  By the sands and jungles of Ark, I will show you your place, boy!

  I winced as Ezra's words vibrated through my head, smashing about like coins inside a shaken lockbox. I dropped my rag, clutching the side of my face as she continued to scream.

  I will show my father that the only purpose slaves like you serve is to entertain those far above your station!

  My left arm shook with fatigue under the weight of my torso as her words crushed my thoughts. Not only had I never been trained in the mental communication of Synapse, I wasn't an Elementalist, either. Because of my ignorance, her words were a hive of bees set loose in my mind. Poisonous, constant stings.

  By my hands, his judgment will be done. The will of Ark is final, she said, releasing her grip on my thoughts. May his light devour your soul.

  Her laughter echoed. By the time I regained control over my body, my hands were pressed flatly to the marble floor on either side of my face. A pool of sweat had spread from the center of my forehead. I collapsed as I tried to pick up the rag. Slipping on my sweat and dribble brought me no shame or anger. I felt the only thing I ever felt—fear.

  Stand, boy.

  This voice was soft as well as stern. I knew it well.

  We are being summoned for kitchen work.

  It felt as if Almarine's words echoed through my mind as well, only hers were subtle and controlled, like a whisper. I looked up only slightly, not wanting to take any risks. I caught a glimpse of Almarine's work sandals before looking directly up at her.

  Your master will be the death of
you, boy, she said. Her words comprised a threat, but her tone was protective.

  Almarine's stern eyes pierced through the splitting headache Ezra had left me with. She sighed as I stared into those eyes, mouthing soundless words at me I could not decipher. The old woman's smile had a deep sadness, yet it was somehow energizing, uplifting. The warmth of that smile washed over me, easing my pain. Before I realized it, she was pulling me to my feet and my headache was gone. I nearly gasped with relief.

  Come, child, Almarine commanded, we must hurry!

  I did as she said. I gathered my bucket and loose rags and followed her through the manor.

  I wonder how many nameless will lose their lives today. Thank Ark's Grace you will not be party to such deadly trials, the calm words flowed directly to my mind.

  Almarine was the only slave whom I’d heard use language like my masters. The kind that swims through one’s mind (or pummels it, if the speaker is Ezra). There were many elder slaves. She was the only one who used words so eloquently, but that didn't stop the rest of them from trying to shape similar words into the open air, regardless of the risk. They quietly planned in the slave quarters and throughout the rest of the compound, who would do what the next day.

  From what I could hear of the meetings, it sounded like a bunch of old people grunting and, I imagined, pointing. Sitting around a poorly drawn map of the compound etched into the sandstone long before any of them had ever been there.

  Almarine, on the other hand, was known by our masters as the one who lead in silence, so they often referred to her as Lady Silence. One snap from her and work was done. I hadn't known then that she could speak out loud. Luckily, the master’s hadn’t, either. If they had, I imagined she would have been dead long ago. Hung by hooks that pierced her upper eyelids, leaving her dangling in a perpetual upward gaze, staring at the light of Ark as those serrated hooks threatened to dislodge bone from bone.