“Can they be freed?” he said quickly.
Regin’s face brightened with laughter in the corners of his eyes, his mouth. “There’s something more than riding horses going on, I swear it! Maybe not as much as I thought at first, but…”
Aven glared at him again but did not deny it this time. No point in lying when it was already obvious to the old man.
“Not that I know of, son. I’ve heard rumors, but they’re probably just hopes and dreams rather than shadows of the truth. However, if you ask me, magic is magic, even if it’s used to enslave. And any magic that can be worked can be un-worked or worked in reverse. The question is how and with what.”
Aven stared into the now-empty bowl. How? Where could he find the answer to that question? Would his mother know? Someone more trained? But how could one find someone like that in Akaria? Certainly, to keep the king’s power safe, anyone that had known was probably killed at the start. Anyone that knew how to free the mage slaves would hold a huge amount of power against Kavanar and its king.
He smiled at that thought. Exactly why he was going to figure this out.
Then a new revelation occurred to him: if she was kidnapping him to become a mage slave as well, then he could soon be in the same predicament. He had more than one stake in this game, and the sooner he could find a way out, the better. If such a way existed.
Regin refilled his mug and took the stew bowl. “This has been more than enough excitement for now. You should get some more rest.”
Aven bowed his head deeply in thanks and lowered himself back down to the bed as Regin crawled from the tent. For a while, he lay racking his brain for a way to free her, wringing the few facts he knew about magic for anything that could help him. But mostly he just cursed himself for knowing so goddamn little.
He was going to be extremely lucky if it didn’t get him killed.
The next time Aven awoke, the ache in his head was gone. He was hungry, but not so hungry as the last time, and in dire need of a bath.
He got to his hands and knees and lifted the tent flap, squinting at the bright fall sunlight. His eyes watered. When they finally adjusted, he could see a fire pit before him with a young boy tending it.
“Hello there,” he called.
The boy looked at him but said nothing.
“Is there a stream or something to wash in?”
The boy nodded. “Over that hill and down by the boulder. About a hundred paces.”
“Thank you,” he said, nodding. He proceeded to crawl the rest of the way out of the tent and carefully try righting himself. After a few dizzy moments and muscle spasms, he was able to stand well enough. He lurched unevenly down to the creek.
The shackles on his forearms remained. Given how little they actually did, they seemed almost silly. It was not the shackles on his wrists that held him here.
In spite of them, he felt oddly free. No one was watching him or directing him in a certain direction. No one was waiting for his arrival at a specified time or requiring his presence. He could stumble on forever if he wanted to, or nowhere. Perhaps he should think about running more seriously. The threat of slavery was all too real if what Regin said was true. Freedom was something Aven had always had; how could he know how much he would miss it? Not every captor would be like Mara.
He crested the hill, only a little dizzy and out of breath, and headed down the other side. He spotted a large boulder among the trees, and sure enough, water flowed beyond the brush. The area around the camp was lightly wooded, occasionally opening up into fields of tall grass and flowers. Was this the same camp, or had they moved? He wasn’t sure anymore; he knew little of the terrain from their nighttime escape. The skies were bright and clear, and most of the leaves were yellow and ready to fall. A strong, brisk wind hit him from the top of the hill down, and he couldn’t help but feel exhilarated by all that energy, the power rushing by. Power that he could now harness.
He reached the boulder. Near it, the brush had been cleared to make an easy path down to the water. He called out, but no one answered. He looked around the other side of the rock, upstream, downstream, but saw no one. He surveyed his clothes. They were beyond filthy now. They needed to go in with him to be washed thoroughly. He might as well just wade in with his clothes on.
He kicked his boots off and pulled off his socks. He dipped his toe into the stream and gasped. Just as he feared—ice cold. Well, at least it would wake him all the way up. He waded in a little and then a little more, starting to shiver.
As the water was lapping against his calves, he suddenly remembered—the star map!
As if a wave were rushing at him, he darted back out of the water and onto the bank and pulled the map from his pocket. Seeing it made him want to stop and study it, but he needed to focus on the task at hand. He wandered around behind the boulder and searched till he found two dry, flat rocks that were well back from the stream’s bank. The earth near the stream was moist, so he used the dry tops of the rocks on either side of the map to pin it down safely from the wind and protect it from the damp soil.
Now his ankles were freezing. He needed to get this over with, so he rushed back around the boulder and stepped into the water again.
For a moment—fueled by either his imagination or his exhaustion, he wasn’t sure—he thought he saw Mara before him, laughing in the sunlight, bare shoulders just breaking the stream’s surface. And then the illusion, or whatever it was, was gone. He stepped in again, but this time he pretended he was joining her in the water.
Was there a way… ?
There was no time to contemplate such things. It was too damn cold. He needed to wash his clothes. He started with his shirt, removing it and beginning to scrub.
As he worked, he went back through everything Regin had said. He racked his brain for clues, ideas, loopholes, anything that might break the spell enslaving her. No ideas came.
When the shirt was clean, he pulled it back over his head and made for his pants and undergarments. He was going to have to let these clothes dry somehow; he wondered if the nomads would loan him some, if they even had any to spare. Mara had said he could make fire, tease the sun—wasn’t there some way he could warm himself while his clothes dried on this cold autumn day? He was just finishing with his pants when he sensed a presence, like someone was watching him.
He turned toward the bank just as his mother’s glowing apparition formed, Lord Beneral and the third companion behind her.
Regin’s face brightened with laughter in the corners of his eyes, his mouth. “There’s something more than riding horses going on, I swear it! Maybe not as much as I thought at first, but…”
Aven glared at him again but did not deny it this time. No point in lying when it was already obvious to the old man.
“Not that I know of, son. I’ve heard rumors, but they’re probably just hopes and dreams rather than shadows of the truth. However, if you ask me, magic is magic, even if it’s used to enslave. And any magic that can be worked can be un-worked or worked in reverse. The question is how and with what.”
Aven stared into the now-empty bowl. How? Where could he find the answer to that question? Would his mother know? Someone more trained? But how could one find someone like that in Akaria? Certainly, to keep the king’s power safe, anyone that had known was probably killed at the start. Anyone that knew how to free the mage slaves would hold a huge amount of power against Kavanar and its king.
He smiled at that thought. Exactly why he was going to figure this out.
Then a new revelation occurred to him: if she was kidnapping him to become a mage slave as well, then he could soon be in the same predicament. He had more than one stake in this game, and the sooner he could find a way out, the better. If such a way existed.
Regin refilled his mug and took the stew bowl. “This has been more than enough excitement for now. You should get some more rest.”
Aven bowed his head deeply in thanks and lowered himself back down to the bed as Regin crawled from the tent. For a while, he lay racking his brain for a way to free her, wringing the few facts he knew about magic for anything that could help him. But mostly he just cursed himself for knowing so goddamn little.
He was going to be extremely lucky if it didn’t get him killed.
The next time Aven awoke, the ache in his head was gone. He was hungry, but not so hungry as the last time, and in dire need of a bath.
He got to his hands and knees and lifted the tent flap, squinting at the bright fall sunlight. His eyes watered. When they finally adjusted, he could see a fire pit before him with a young boy tending it.
“Hello there,” he called.
The boy looked at him but said nothing.
“Is there a stream or something to wash in?”
The boy nodded. “Over that hill and down by the boulder. About a hundred paces.”
“Thank you,” he said, nodding. He proceeded to crawl the rest of the way out of the tent and carefully try righting himself. After a few dizzy moments and muscle spasms, he was able to stand well enough. He lurched unevenly down to the creek.
The shackles on his forearms remained. Given how little they actually did, they seemed almost silly. It was not the shackles on his wrists that held him here.
In spite of them, he felt oddly free. No one was watching him or directing him in a certain direction. No one was waiting for his arrival at a specified time or requiring his presence. He could stumble on forever if he wanted to, or nowhere. Perhaps he should think about running more seriously. The threat of slavery was all too real if what Regin said was true. Freedom was something Aven had always had; how could he know how much he would miss it? Not every captor would be like Mara.
He crested the hill, only a little dizzy and out of breath, and headed down the other side. He spotted a large boulder among the trees, and sure enough, water flowed beyond the brush. The area around the camp was lightly wooded, occasionally opening up into fields of tall grass and flowers. Was this the same camp, or had they moved? He wasn’t sure anymore; he knew little of the terrain from their nighttime escape. The skies were bright and clear, and most of the leaves were yellow and ready to fall. A strong, brisk wind hit him from the top of the hill down, and he couldn’t help but feel exhilarated by all that energy, the power rushing by. Power that he could now harness.
He reached the boulder. Near it, the brush had been cleared to make an easy path down to the water. He called out, but no one answered. He looked around the other side of the rock, upstream, downstream, but saw no one. He surveyed his clothes. They were beyond filthy now. They needed to go in with him to be washed thoroughly. He might as well just wade in with his clothes on.
He kicked his boots off and pulled off his socks. He dipped his toe into the stream and gasped. Just as he feared—ice cold. Well, at least it would wake him all the way up. He waded in a little and then a little more, starting to shiver.
As the water was lapping against his calves, he suddenly remembered—the star map!
As if a wave were rushing at him, he darted back out of the water and onto the bank and pulled the map from his pocket. Seeing it made him want to stop and study it, but he needed to focus on the task at hand. He wandered around behind the boulder and searched till he found two dry, flat rocks that were well back from the stream’s bank. The earth near the stream was moist, so he used the dry tops of the rocks on either side of the map to pin it down safely from the wind and protect it from the damp soil.
Now his ankles were freezing. He needed to get this over with, so he rushed back around the boulder and stepped into the water again.
For a moment—fueled by either his imagination or his exhaustion, he wasn’t sure—he thought he saw Mara before him, laughing in the sunlight, bare shoulders just breaking the stream’s surface. And then the illusion, or whatever it was, was gone. He stepped in again, but this time he pretended he was joining her in the water.
Was there a way… ?
There was no time to contemplate such things. It was too damn cold. He needed to wash his clothes. He started with his shirt, removing it and beginning to scrub.
As he worked, he went back through everything Regin had said. He racked his brain for clues, ideas, loopholes, anything that might break the spell enslaving her. No ideas came.
When the shirt was clean, he pulled it back over his head and made for his pants and undergarments. He was going to have to let these clothes dry somehow; he wondered if the nomads would loan him some, if they even had any to spare. Mara had said he could make fire, tease the sun—wasn’t there some way he could warm himself while his clothes dried on this cold autumn day? He was just finishing with his pants when he sensed a presence, like someone was watching him.
He turned toward the bank just as his mother’s glowing apparition formed, Lord Beneral and the third companion behind her.
