Mage Slave (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 1)

by R. K. Thorne

  “Indeed. We would appreciate your daughter’s company, thank you, if you think it would help.” This man, unlike the last few, seemed to have a decent head on his shoulders. “Here’s twenty for your trouble, sir, if you can give us breakfast in the morning. I’m also in the market for a saddle, if you have one for sale.”

  He raised a slight eyebrow at that but took the money gratefully. “After breakfast in the morning, I’ll walk you out to our stable and you can have a look. We’ve got a few.”

  With that he led them into the tavern room and sat them at a table with a young girl of maybe five years.

  “Emie,” he said, “these are some out-of-town guests. Would you mind if they sat with you? And you come and get me or your mama if anybody needs anything.”

  Emie nodded solemnly. By the way he said it, he’d said that line to her before, and it had more meaning than its face value. She knew the routine. He brought them some ale and left them. For a moment there was an awkward silence.

  “So you know my name,” the little girl said with a happy little smile. “What are your names?”

  “Aven,” Aven said, smiling at the little girl and clearly not thinking. She kicked him under the table.

  “Lenara,” she said, trying to sound pleasant and pretend nothing was going on.

  The little girl was having none of it, however. She laughed at them. “My mum does that to me sometimes as well,” she whispered at Aven, giggling. “Aven! That’s a nice name. That’s the prince’s name! Did you know my brother’s named after the king? Samul is kind of long to say, though, so we call him Sul.”

  Aven nodded, smiling. “Samul is a good name.” Miara sighed with relief when he said nothing more.

  “Is Emie short for anything?” she asked into the growing silence.

  “Oh, yes, it’s short for Emilira. Kind of hard to say, too. Not like Lenara! That’s pretty, flows right off the tongue. Lenara!” She clicked her tongue for the fun of it.

  “Thank you,” Miara said, smiling. The girl had a sweetness and energy that lifted the dark feeling that hung over Miara. Emie reminded her of a younger Luha. An ache panged in her chest. How was her little sister and her laughing brown eyes? What would she be up to at this moment?

  “It’s almost time for snow, you know!” Emie said.

  “Do you like snow?” Aven asked.

  She nodded vigorously, her whole torso bobbing in excitement. “I do. It’s pretty, especially this time of year, when it’s light and lovely and doesn’t get too deep.”

  Miara relaxed a little, leaning back into the bench. Aven seemed enchanted by the girl.

  “It’s nice when it’s deep, though, too. You can go out and dig tunnels and roll up big balls of snow and throw them—but they don’t hurt! Well, as long as you don’t hit someone in the eye or try to make ice balls or something. Sul got hit in the forehead once. There was a lump the size of an egg. It was red as a coal for two whole days.”

  “No! The size of an egg?” Aven was good at playing along.

  She nodded her violently enthusiastic nod once again. “Sometimes this time of year, we don’t get snow, though. Sometimes it’s not for a few months. It’s still warm for snow. I wish I could make snow and have it whenever I wanted. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

  Aven grinned. “It would.” She studied his eyes, but he didn’t seem to realize that he could do precisely such a thing. Should she tell him later? It took cooling the air and calling the rain and then combining them together. If wind came naturally to him, perhaps the weather would be the logical next step. But if he wanted to stop her from taking him back to the Masters—well, there was nothing like a gigantic snowstorm to lock people in one place. It was doubtful he could pull that off. He would be lucky if he could summon a single flake. And even if he did, she could easily drain away all his energy until he gave up or passed out. She wouldn’t tell him about the snow, but he almost certainly couldn’t do anything with the knowledge even if he wanted to.

  Aven prattled on with the little girl in a variety of harmless ways. They discussed all manner of weather conditions and then life around the village. He seemed very interested in that.

  “What kinds of problems do people have?” he asked. “We’re from far away, near the sea.”

  “Well, this year, a lot of people keep getting sick, but Old Man Jones can’t cure them all. He tries, though. This summer was pretty dry, so the harvest isn’t so good for some of the farms. It may be a hard winter. Pa tries to hide it from me, but I can tell he’s worried. Remol, the blacksmith, likes to fight with my Pa, but Old Man Jones gave him a talking-to, so I think he might be done with that.”

  They continued. She listened, checking for the wrong words, but he only seemed interested in chitchat, and the little girl would probably think he was joking at this point if he tried to explain he would someday be her king. Miara just sat and listened to their idle prattle, as she sometimes liked to listen to Luha talk to the other girls, and just let her thoughts be quiet—let herself not think for a while, especially not about her life. The meat pie the innkeeper’s wife brought them was blissful and steaming. The words of the queen and the wolves still echoed in her ears, but she tried to focus on Emie’s instead.

  When they’d finished eating, Emie led them to their rented room, taking the stairs two at a time. Aven followed behind Mara up around a corner to a small back room. Warm and with a belly full of meat and ale and a mind full of Emie’s sweetness, he was feeling better than he had in a while. The other rooms looked to be either rented or the innkeeper’s. Emie opened the door, showed them around, and bowed.

  “Can I get Ma to get you some hot water?” she asked. Mara nodded, handing the girl the pitcher from the washstand. Then Emie was gone.

  The room was, indeed, awkwardly small. There was barely room for the washstand, chamber pot, and double bed. A small stove heated the room, which was a good thing, as the bed would’ve been practically inside the hearth of a fireplace. Still, one of them would likely be too hot or too cold. He looked at Mara, who was staring at the bed in dismay. There wasn’t even another chair in the room.

  “If I can make a request…”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Which surely I can’t. But if I could… can we skip the vines again, please? I’m not claustrophobic, but I think I’d rather sit on the stove and try to sleep.” He ventured a wink.

  A sly smile crept onto her face. “You prefer the stove. Got it.”

  He let out a laugh, turned his back on her, and plopped down on the side of the bed nearest him. He reached down to rub his sore knees and kicked off his boots. How could he ease this tension?

  Just then, his eyes caught on the shackle on his left wrist. He probably could have run today, but it hadn’t even occurred to him. All he had done was stare, heart in his throat, as the wolf seemed to consider killing her… and then change its mind. Mysteries upon mysteries.

  “Those wolves. Did my mother send them?” Now was as good a time as any to ask.

  There was a knock at the door. She glared at him in warning. “Come in,” she called.

  The innkeeper’s wife entered and brought in the steaming pitcher. Then she left with a modest nod and a bow. Aven smiled at her as she shut the door. The woman did not show any signs of having heard anything suspicious.

  “Yes.” She started to wash the dried blood from her neck.

  “I thought they were going to kill you.”

  “So did I.”

  He hesitated for a moment, hoping she would say more. Nothing came.

  “Why didn’t they?” he asked. Did his voice give away more than it should?

  She stopped washing and stared at her own reflection in the mirror behind the washbasin. “I wish I could explain. Honestly. But I can’t.”

  He glared at her. This again? He had held nothing back from her, and she had complete control over him. Why would she possibly not tell him something as simple as this? “Can’t or won’t?”

&
nbsp; “Can’t,” she said, an edge in her voice.

  He gritted his teeth, not wanting to believe her. “Did my mother call them off? Did you overpower them? I want to know what happened. I think I deserve that much. Why did they stop?”

  “Oh, you’d rather they have kept going?” she spat.

  “No!” he said, very certain now the falter in his voice gave away far too much. “But I know you know why. Why can’t you tell me?”

  She strode toward him abruptly and fell down on one knee, not two feet away. He watched the fiery strands that had escaped from her bun fall around her face; she pushed them out of her eyes absently. She reached up to the collar of her tunic and pulled it out to the right, twisting until he could see her naked neck and shoulder.

  He caught his breath.

  “This. This is why. This is why they didn’t kill me and why I can’t explain.”

  “But that— Did the wolves— I thought you healed yourself. Are you okay?” The wound on her shoulder was the size of his palm, scabby with bits of dried blood. It could not be more than a few days old. He had seen a few wounds in his day, but this was unlike any created by any normal weapon.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not okay. Does it look okay?” She slowly covered it again.

  “But that wound is fresh. Did the drunk do that and I didn’t notice?

  “No.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Fifteen years ago.”

  He blinked now, simply not comprehending. “Why hasn’t it healed?”

  “It never heals.”

  They sat for a moment in silence.

  “But what does it mean?”

  “I told you I can’t explain. Please believe me. I truly wish I could.”

  She stood, covering it again. Fifteen years? She had had a wound for fifteen years that somehow stopped her from—well, many things. He stared into her dark eyes for a long time, struggling to process what she’d said. He wanted to shake her and insist on the truth. But he was beginning to realize that this was the truth. Now, he wanted even more to find whoever had put that wound on her shoulder and give them a wound or two. How could a wound not heal for fifteen years? Unless…

  It must be magic. Dark magic. Like the kind that had led to mages being feared and loathed in the first place, the kind that had brought on the Dark Days. He had thought it had all been lost in the sands of time.

  Finally, he simply nodded. “I believe you. I may be a fool, but I do.”

  She nodded curtly, but there was relief behind her eyes. “Go ahead and wash up.”

  She moved to take off her boots. Still stunned, he obediently headed to the washbasin. He was filthy. Did he dare take off his shirt? He glanced at her. She sat with her back to him, eyes fixed on the furnace, not moving. She seemed exhausted, worn down.

  Hell, she’d seen him naked the day they’d met. What did he have to hide at this point? He stripped off his shirt and began washing as best he could.

  “So, no vines, then?” he asked, hoping to change the tone. He examined his grimy shirt and wondered if he should put it back on.

  She turned to glance at him with a crooked smile, her eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of him. “No vines,” she said. “I’m more in a stomach flu sort of mood today. Did you forget? The door, however, will not be so lucky.”

  He glanced at the door and jumped in surprise—spiders had clustered around the locks and hinges, weaving elaborate webs across the door. So she hadn’t just been sitting still. Good thing he didn’t really want to escape from her. He didn’t want to figure a way around those buggers.

  The image of the wound on her shoulder flashed through his mind again, and for the first time, fear shot through him with a cold, nervous energy. Everything else had been speculation, and at a certain point it was a waste to worry. But this was something real. Surely the same people who’d sent her were the ones who’d given her that gash. Would they give him one of his own?

  Again, speculation. It would get him nowhere. Moving on.

  “This shirt is filthy. Is it all right with you if I leave it off?” he asked. She hesitated, then nodded. “These folks do seem friendly. Perhaps a second set of clothes wouldn’t be a bad idea?”

  She nodded, a twist of a smile in the corner of her mouth. “You are beginning to look more and more like a recently rich beggar,” she said. “We’ll see to it in the morning.”

  Since he wasn’t going to wear it, he washed it thoroughly and then hung it nearby to dry. He might be a prince, but warriors needed some basic self-care skills when on a campaign. He was glad for them now. He wasn’t used to all this magic and gallivanting around on horseback under the sun, of all things.

  He sat down on the bed behind her, feeling her back warm and only inches from his own. Should he offer to sleep on the floor? He probably should if he wanted to really be a gentleman. The Code did not cover kidnapper-captor etiquette, but in general, it was not princely to sleep beside a woman he wasn’t married to. But this mattress was springy beneath his fingers—better than the usual straw. Some amount of moss, perhaps? Not his bed at home, but not the rocky ground either. He longed for the feel of it beneath him. He’d just stretch out for a moment, and then he’d offer to leave the bed to her…

  Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep.

  Aven.

  A voice cut through his dreams and roused him. For a moment, he thought it was his mother, reaching out to him—but no. He was still asleep.

  He stood on the balcony in Estun. Stars shone in a majestic night sky above. It was not quite the balcony he remembered. Rows of neat vegetables grew instead of ornamental shrubs and flowers. The cherry tree was there, but it was only a tiny sapling.

  He was not alone. A tall, black-haired woman stood, gazing at him with familiar eyes.

  “Who are you?” Aven whispered, feeling as though he should already know.

  “Tena Idal Lanuken.”

  Tena had been the name of his father’s father’s mother. His prayers that afternoon for guidance—someone had been listening! Could it truly be a spirit dream?

  He fell to one knee hastily and bowed deeply. Tena had been a legendary queen and a powerful warrior. She had triumphed in several major battles with Takar and finally achieved the lasting peace Aven knew today. Whatever she had to say, he must listen carefully.

  “I am honored, Great-Grandmother,” he whispered.

  “You remember me. I’m glad. I knew Samul would not forget us.”

  Aven nodded, head bowed.

  “Tell me the purpose of an Akarian king,” Tena demanded.

  “To serve Akaria,” he replied, following tradition. “To serve our people. To protect them from harm, to bring law where there is chaos, to keep the peace. To bring prosperity, if possible.”

  “And what does it mean to be a Lanuken?” she asked.

  “A Lanuken defends those who cannot defend themselves. A Lanuken stands up for honor, for the Code, for the Way of Things. A Lanuken as king preserves the Balance and helps his people.” The first parts were more of what he had heard his father say before, although he believed and breathed every word of it. He added the last bit himself.

  She considered his answer. Aven took a deep breath, waiting. Starlight glittered off a circlet of diamonds in her dark hair and tiny jewels on her navy gown.

  “You love this place, don’t you?” she said.

  Had he passed her test? The queen smiled down, a twinkle in her eye. “This balcony?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Why do you think we built this terrace?”

  “Everyone says it was for the extra food source, the vegetable garden. Plus it is beautiful.”

  She smiled. “You know the official story, but your heart knows that there’s more. You don’t even grow vegetables there anymore. Why is it that you love it, Sky King?”

  He hesitated. “The sunlight.”

  She grinned. “Yes. T
he sunlight.” She paused, strolling toward the cherry sapling. “I ordered this terrace built. You know, our line has always included men of the earth. Mages of stone. Of diamonds. But every once in a while, there are others. Others who are strange and different and powerful. Once in many generations, we are foretold of greatness.”

  Aven shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “We were foretold of you.”

  Aven frowned. “But what— Why—”

  “I built this terrace for you.”

  “Thank you,” he said. It might have been the truest thanks he’d ever given. “But why?”

  Queen Tena just smiled. “Knowing the future is not good for mages. Knowing the future has only driven men mad. So I will tell you a little, just as I was told only a little, for the sake of our sanity. Instead, look up.”

  Aven obeyed. The moon faded to darkness as he looked up, and the stars shone brighter. For a moment his heart ached at the familiarity of it, and he longed to be back home.

  Tena approached, took his hand, and pulled him to his feet. She pointed into the sky. There, in the south, one familiar star seemed to twinkle especially brightly.

  “Do you see that star?” she whispered. “That is the star of your rule.”

  He shivered. Her words echoed the Takaran’s.

  “Casel.”

  She nodded. “The freedom star.”

  “So… I will rule someday?” Aven said, looking from the star to his great-grandmother’s eyes. They were the same gray as his own.

  “We are a line of kings. We serve our people, whether on the throne or not. We help our people, and all those who suffer oppression, on the throne or not. I do not know your future any more than you do. I only know that the star Casel calls out to you. And that there is war on your horizon.”

  War. The word rang true in his heart. Some part of him had known it was coming.

  “My brothers?”

  “They have their own beacons, in the earth, that can only be told to them.”

  Aven looked back into the sky. Casel twinkled.

  “Go now, Aven, and rest. Let the history and power of your ancestors bolster you.”