by R. K. Thorne
For the first time in three years, Jaena was awoken by something other than a burning in her shoulder. She slept heavily, and while others arose to the bells and chimes that were supposed to wake them, she tended to need the brand’s painful reminder to actually open her eyes. Assorted pains stabbing her shoulder was the worst way to wake up that she could imagine.
And today, they were gone.
Instead, one of the other girls that shared their arbitrarily assigned rooms left and slammed the door behind her.
Jaena sat up. Everyone else was already gone, off about their duties. She was glad to miss them—they were not women she would have chosen to live with—and so it was a relief to have some peace, just as the lack of pain was a relief.
But would it be harder to keep this secret than she had thought?
She scrambled to pull on a clean white tunic and her usual leather vest, one of the few things she retained from Hepan that she actually used everyday. She splashed water over her face. Neat, thin braids tumbled about her face as she unwrapped her hair, and then she headed for the stairs. As she spiraled down, she wove the tiny braids into two larger ones to keep them out of her face. Thank Anara they weren’t harder to deal with in the morning, because she had no time. Of course, they’d taken Dekana hours to put in. And Jaena had no idea who she would find to ever do them again when she needed to take them out. Or if she would find anyone at all. A familiar despair settled over her.
Even though Jaena was free, nothing could bring her sister back.
Her footsteps echoed bleakly in the empty stairwell as she hurried down. Shafts of morning sunlight pierced her, making her squint, too attentive, too cheerful. How would she explain her lateness? Where was she even assigned today? She didn’t know yet. She would have to go to the Master’s Hall to find out. Great.
Outside, a few still funneled into the various buildings, so she was not the very last person. But she’d been close to horrendously late. What if her annoying roommate hadn’t slammed the door on her? How was she going to keep this up?
It would be fine. It wasn’t long. She could get through a day without them discovering it, surely.
She trotted toward the stairs where one of the Fat Master’s favorite mages handed out assignments. Before Mage Hall, Jaena had been fond of exercise in the morning. Sometimes a run, sometimes dance or meditation. Her father had prized grace in his daughters, and running didn’t impart much of that. Still, it was good to get the blood pumping. Now outside that world of diplomacy, it was nice to be something more than a graceful, tactful flower. She could be strong. She could be tough. And she was.
Most earth mages were. Perhaps she had always been.
The taskmistress greeted her with a suspicious glare.
“I, uh—threw up,” Jaena blurted. She’d seen it happen once. Physical illness could keep you from following the brand’s orders, even if you wanted to.
Right?
“Here. You’re needed in the smithy.” The woman, who was also on the rotund side, like the Fat Master himself, held out a knapsack. “They want help with cooling. Then you’re on delivery duty. Casting horseshoes today, shoeing them tomorrow.”
Jaena groaned, but she grudgingly took the empty knapsack. Slinging it over her shoulder, she headed toward the smithy. Earth mages had the most boring jobs. Kae got to blast people on their duffs all day. And her? She was stuck cooling slivers of metal.
Over and over and over again.
But not for long, she reminded herself, and that put a bounce in her step. This would likely be the last time she had to cool horseshoes. At least, if everything went off without a problem.
She greeted the master blacksmith with a nod. A dozen smiths slaved away in the heat, but they regularly worked together and always without a word. He preferred not to stop clanging for niceties. She had to agree. She dropped the knapsack and headed to sit by the coals. They weren’t blazing hot, and each day grew colder and colder. But they didn’t need to be blazing hot, because they had only been to get the smith started. Now he had her instead.
She paid little heed to his work but managed to heat the steel, funneling energy from the earth beneath her feet. Sometimes she took off her boots for a better connection for intense work, but today’s work barely required her attention, let alone her whole energy. But it did make the smith’s job far easier, and she was glad for that, so it could have been worse.
Most efficient was when the earth mage was the smith. And sometimes that was the case. But occasionally air mages took to it too, like this fellow, drawn to where earth met air in the fire and heat. They were still competent mage-smiths who could keep their fires going with amazing heat and regularity.
Jaena was just glad that they hadn’t tried to make her into one of them. To be a warrior was far better than a smith, at least to her. She would be more independent, more able to defend herself. Maybe more able to get some kind of revenge on behalf of her sister.
This is almost over, she thought. Nothing to get worked up about right now.
The shoes for the horses piled up in a sack near the hearth. She alternated between keeping a steady heat in the shoe as it curved around the horn of the anvil and cooling the shoes as rapidly as she could. Then the smith would drop them into the sack to take to the stables. One after another clanked into the pile, until she doubted she would be able to carry the thing soon. She’d take a break and head over to the stables shortly. Just one or two more.
A scream sliced through the regular clanging of the smiths working, and Jaena’s heart leapt into double time.
“Anara protect us,” she whispered, mostly to herself. No one could hear her, because the screams continued.
Her smith stilled, staring down at the anvil, his dark eyes bleak and empty. The Masters were making another slave.
There’s hope, she wanted to tell him. Someone’s discovered a way out of this. But she really had no idea who or how or why. And this was neither the time nor the place to explain. If only she were a creature mage and could plant the words in his head without them hearing.
She stood, forcing herself to act steady, to appear strong. She pointed at the knapsack, and he nodded. She hefted it to her shoulder and strode out of the smithy, trying to pretend she wasn’t running away. Trying to look like the screams made no difference to her.
All too quickly, she reached the stables, emptied the shoes into their nearly empty bin, and was on her way back. She tried to think of something that could delay her. But any variation from the norm could be a reason to suspect something was up. A way for them to take that brand to her too. Again.
If she had thought being enslaved once intolerable, she imagined a second time might drive her mad. Dekana hadn’t been able to tolerate even once. But she’d had it worse. If Jaena ever finished her training, she’d likely find out for herself.
So she needed to make sure she didn’t finish her damn training. She did not hesitate to head back. She would do everything as perfectly as they said, better than she had as a slave if she had to. Until darkness fell tomorrow—then she would be gone.
She was nearly back to the smithy. She would have to walk past the branding area—going the long way around could draw attention, and it wasn’t worth them noticing her. But, gods—she didn’t want to see. Fortunately, the screams had stopped. For now.
“No, I’m coming with you.” The Tall Master’s voice close by grated across her nerves, and she staggered back a step involuntarily. “I’m the one who tackled the prince last week, so I’m not trusting this to you. First that, now this one. You have to actually hold them if you don’t want them to get the jump on you. Idiots.”
As she rounded the corner and stepped inside the smithy, the first of six guards trotted forth and slammed into her, sending her stumbling to the ground. The five others guards jogged past her sprawled form on the smithy floor without reaction. The Tall Master followed along behind them. Perhaps she should have gone around the long way.
Jae
na sat up and stopped short. Blood dripped from the table where the slaves were branded and smeared across the floor. A lot of blood. What had happened here? Sure, one could bleed a little from the brand, but it was mostly a burn. Whoever had been brought here must have been beaten—because they’d tried to run?—or already injured.
She had stared for too long. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed her. No one stood nearby. Anyone else in the smithy huddled close to their hearths, as far out of sight and mind of the Tall Master as they could reach.
Her eyes caught on a pole of iron on the floor near the hearth. The brand they used to make slaves had been knocked aside in the fray, now resting in the blood splatter. The unimportant-looking object steamed and radiated a violent heat, both physical and magical.
And here it sat, not three feet from her.
She scooted a measure closer to it. What was she doing? She needed to head back to her smith, keep her head down, and wait until tomorrow night. And then she’d be out of here. She’d be free.
She slid toward it again. As a slave, she would have been compelled not to touch the brand. She hadn’t truly tested her new freedom yet, not deliberately anyway.
Her hand shook as she reached for the brand. Her fingers wrapped around the long handle. Nothing happened, no burn in her shoulder. She could feel the hot steel, but something more resided in the end, a twisted, sulfurous energy, more like air magic. More like a maggot made of fire. More like pure evil imbued in metal. Strange.
Even if she escaped, this device would be able to enslave her again if they caught her. And while she fled, the enslavement would all continue.
Think of some way to hurt them.
This was her chance—her chance at revenge. She had thought she would have to wait a long time for revenge against them. And yet. She stared at the bleak metal. What loss was Jaena to the Masters? A young apprentice who would maybe someday be a warrior but for now was mostly good for speeding the production of horseshoes? How could she even compare the two?
Before she could think better of it, she took the knapsack off her shoulder, opened it, and stuffed the brand inside, cooling it with a spell as much as she was able. The evil bit was not something she could influence, and it hissed as it hit the burlap canvas, but the metal handle cooled. A whiff of smoke caught her nose, but it would be hardly noticeable in a smithy.
She scrambled to her feet, trying to look calm as one of the smiths moved into view. Smoothing her tunic, her eyes caught on a guard not six feet from her, waiting just outside the door. Of course, he watched for intruders, not mages already inside. She swallowed and strolled as casually as she could back out of the smithy, hoping he couldn’t see her shaking. I’m fine. I’m cool. I’m collected. Nothing to see here. Just carrying more shoes to the stable. My, that smith is fast.
Turning the corner, she gasped. She’d been holding her breath. So much for looking casual, but it had apparently been enough to fool that guard. A crowd of young mages headed toward their classrooms, and she melded into their group.
Now that the deed was done, her mind began to race. The Tall Master would realize the brand was gone any second. She had very little time. Where could she hide it? Would they be able to use magic to detect it somehow, or could she hide it in a more normal way? Should she toss it and get away from it so they wouldn’t suspect her? Now that she had it, what in the seven hells was she going to do with it?
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 the
m. 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.