“Great.”

  “She really is. She studied in Helfirim.”

  The information caught Dawyn by surprise. It didn’t seem right for someone who had studied in Helfirim to be working in Scyrta. Mages who completed their training at the Tower were held in high esteem in Itothia and often found coveted positions within noble households.

  “What’s she doing in Scyrta?” he asked.

  “She fled Itothia when Valhm was torn down and the Itothian king began executing all dark mages. She told me the story once.”

  Dawyn felt an uncomfortable chill run down his spine with the realization he had been face to face with a dark mage mere minutes ago.

  “So…you are a slave?” Dawyn said after a beat, dubiously eyeing Cyril’s lavish clothing and jewels.

  “We both are”—Cyril’s eyes shone with pride—“and not just anyone’s slaves. We serve Master Louthe. You should be grateful she picked you. It’s a high honor to be a member of her household.”

  Dawyn, disgusted at the suggestion he should feel anything but horror at his current predicament, shot a look of incredulity at Cyril. He received an innocent questioning gaze in return.

  “Oh, you don’t know who Master Louthe is,” Cyril said after a beat. “Valora Louthe is one of the richest people in Scyrta. She’s a descendant of one of the three pirate captains—the founders of Scyrta.”

  “I am not familiar with Scyrta’s history,” said Dawyn. He scowled, not particularly in the mood to hear about the person who had bought him off the market like a cow.

  “Don’t worry, I wasn’t either until Agyna told me.” Cyril gave him a sweet smile. “Several hundred years ago, three pirate captains docked here with the intent to stash their loot. But they found something much more valuable than all their riches combined.”

  Cyril fell silent as a pair of guards passed. He continued only after their steps faded. “The entire island was full of sakaril. Can you imagine their surprise?”

  “What’s sakaril?” Dawyn asked, the word unfamiliar on his tongue.

  They turned a corner and saw the passage clear.

  “Sakaril is a tall plant bearing red flowers. Dried and ground into fine powder, its petals can be snorted to induce a god-like state. It increases a person’s strength and makes them immune to fear or pain.”

  “Never heard of it.” Dawyn shrugged.

  “You wouldn’t have. It’s long gone—the captains sold every last bit to whoever could pay. Agyna said both Haskia and Itothia used it to turn their armies into frightening forces. She says it’s good sakaril is gone. Not like the captains needed it anymore by the time they stripped the entire island of it—they were so rich they easily moved on to other trades.”

  Dawyn nodded wordlessly, feeling no need to continue the topic, and Cyril began talking about the life in Louthe’s palace and the expected behaviors of a slave.

  He suddenly fell silent, and when Dawyn turned to look at him, he found the boy staring nervously at the two figures ahead, shoulders tense.

  The light-skinned Itothian woman wore her medium-brown hair cropped short to the ears and might have been mistaken for a boy from behind with her non-existential curves. Her honey-brown eyes shone with sharp intellect as she spoke to her companion—a handsome man with dark hair and stunning blue eyes. He made up for her lacking height with his own.

  The woman barely paid attention to their approach, but the man’s eyes took in Cyril with keen interest. When they grew close, his hand shot out to curl possessively about the Haskian boy’s arm.

  “What are you doing right now, Cyril?”

  Something about the way he asked the question bothered Dawyn.

  “Melise told me to take care of him. It’s his first day,” said Cyril, having lost all the easy mannerisms from minutes before.

  The man spared a glance over Dawyn then returned his attention to Cyril. “Looks like he’s all taken care of”—his lips pulled into a dazzling smile, revealing rows of white teeth—“I have better things you could be doing.”

  Cyril trembled.

  “Stop bothering the slave, Torval,” said his companion. She waited a few feet ahead, impatience evident on her features.

  Torval ignored her as he stroked Cyril’s dark curls almost tenderly—the tiny rubies glittered as his long fingers ran over them. “Drop him off with Melise and come see me. I’ll be in my chambers.” Torval’s green robe swished dramatically as he turned and strode after his companion.

  Dawyn frowned after the two figures, disturbed by the exchange, then a tug on his arm from Cyril got him moving again.

  “Who are they?” Dawyn whispered when they were safely out of hearing distance.

  “Selia and Torval. They are top-ranking mages in Master Louthe’s service,” said Cyril, voice low. His mood seemed to have dampened and his eyes looked troubled.

  “Are they dark mages too?” Dawyn asked. He was reminded of the smooth metal against his neck and suppressed the urge to pick at it.

  “Most mages in Scyrta are. Many of them crossed over after the war when the executions began.”

  They came to a stop before the same set of doors Dawyn had been brought in through by the guards.

  Cyril turned to Dawyn with a sympathetic smile.

  “I know things might be scary right now but you’ll grow to like your life here. Master Louthe, she’s the best master anyone could wish for. She takes care of us.”

  Dawyn doubted he would ever grow to enjoy being enslaved against his will but what troubled him the most was the sincerity behind the words.

  “How long have you been with Louthe?” he asked and watched as a bright smile spread over Cyril’s face.

  “As long as I can remember.”

  9

  After the incident with the bandits, everyone was glad to come across an inn the next evening.

  Cedrik bade them good night after dinner and Thaleon found himself in the room he was to share with Laurits.

  The older boy claimed one of the beds and sat on its edge unlacing his boots while Thaleon took the sofa, not tired enough to sleep or feeling comfortable enough to lounge on the other bed. Witnessing Laurits brutally kill twenty men and women hadn’t assuaged his discomfort around the mage.

  “So how do you feel knowing you have magic? Being told you are the lucky one in a hundred?”

  Thaleon looked up at Laurits’ question.

  Face downcast, the older boy continued unlacing his boots, a curtain of ash brown falling over the side of his face.

  “I’m not sure. My body aches all over and I feel tired but I don’t feel any different,” said Thaleon.

  Everything had happened so quickly from the murder of his parents to finding himself with Cedrik and Laurits. His body and mind had been a mess through it all and he hadn’t had the opportunity to really think through everything.

  Being in the room with Laurits—a real-life mage—felt more like a dream than reality.

  Thaleon wished it were all a dream.

  He wanted to wake to find himself in his bed feeling the soft fur of the dogs curled up next to him. He wished it was Dawyn sitting on the bed instead of Laurits and they were in their small room listening to the voices of his parents downstairs—he would give up his magic in a heartbeat if it meant he could have them back.

  “Exhaustion and aches are normal. The first time touching magic is the worst,” said Laurits. He finished unlacing his left boot and set it aside to begin working on the right.

  “What was your first time like?”

  Laurits’ long fingers faltered at the question, frozen over the intricate laces—they continued steadily after a near imperceptible pause.

  “When I was seven, one of my mother’s regulars came in drunk and in a foul mood. He started beating her for no reason and I heard everything. My mother was a whore and she would have me hide in the closet when she was working because, well, it would be bad for business to have a kid in the room and I had nowhere else to go.” Laurits’ lips pulled into a small, wry smile.

  “At first, I thought it was just another one of his miserable episodes but he wouldn’t stop. I think he really would have killed her. I threw him into the wall so hard he nearly broke his back—didn’t even realize what was going on until I held him against the ceiling and drained the air from his lungs. If my mother hadn’t screamed at me to stop, I would have killed him,” he said it all blandly as if he was reciting the whole thing from a book and not recounting his own experience.

  “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” Thaleon shifted, uncomfortable, regretting having asked the question.

  “Don’t be. My mother’s procurer was delighted. He sold me to a ship captain headed for Scyrta the next day. Mages—especially ones as young as I had been—fetch a top price and both he and the captain knew it. He bartered hard and left with a heavy purse. Probably bought himself more whores with the coin.”

  Laurits finished unlacing his right boot and placed it next to the other. He slipped out of his jacket, draped the garment over the foot of the bed, then leaned back to rest his head on the thick pillows. Long lashes cast cobwebs upon the planes of his face as he closed his eyes.

  “People buy mages? Why?” Thaleon frowned, his child’s mind struggling to comprehend. He recalled his father telling him about Scyrta but couldn’t remember him mentioning mages being bought and sold on the isle.

  “The wealthy of Scyrta like to show off their power. Only a very few are born with magic so owning a mage slave has become a status symbol of sorts.” Laurits’ nonchalant response drew a horrified expression from Thaleon—he could not recall his father mentioning slavery either.

  “But how can a mage be a slave? They could just leave anytime they wanted. No one would be able to stop them.”

  Laurits’ eyes fluttered open and his expression grew annoyed. “Magic doesn’t make you invincible”—he sighed—“and there are ways to control those with magic. Rha’ensars—commonly known as mage chains—are a popular method. They look like iron collars at their basic form but many of Scyrta’s wealthy like to have them forged with precious metals and jewels. Rha’ensars are extremely expensive and excruciatingly difficult to create. Only a select few mages craft them—enough money can turn anyone blind.”

  “That’s horrible,” said Thaleon, heavily disturbed by the idea mages created the very devices used to enslave their kind.

  “Mhm,” Laurits, face a mask of calm, hummed as his eyes fell closed.

  “But how can mages help enslave other mages? It’s not right!”

  Laurits opened his eyes once more to raise an eyebrow at Thaleon’s sudden outburst. He frowned, then shrugged. “You are right. But such is the way of the world.” Laurits’ hands, clasped together on his stomach, clenched just a bit tighter. “The scariest thing is if you get the child young enough, they convince themselves they are exactly where they want to be. They don’t realize they are nothing more than expensive pets until they are cast aside like garbage when their masters no longer have a need for them.” He sat up to face Thaleon, hair disheveled slightly from lying on the pillow.

  “The world is a dangerous place for young mages”—Laurits’ lips drooped slightly at their edges—“and even more dangerous for valekyns like yourself. At least us elarkyns don’t have to worry about being hunted down by the Crown.”

  Being called a valekyn—a dark mage—never failed to cause Thaleon’s stomach to twist uncomfortably. He wondered if he would ever get used to the title. He bit his lip as his eyes dropped to the floor to stare at a random loose thread in the rug.

  Sound of rustling clothes and Laurits joined him on the sofa. After a moment, the mage sighed and wrapped an arm about his shoulder with surprising tenderness. Thaleon leaned into the comforting touch, struggling to suppress the rising tears.

  “There was a time when val was not synonymous with evil. Valekyns stood proudly with elarkyns and received high respect. And your birth magic does not define you. You alone are free to choose your destiny and nothing—not even magic—can make you do anything you don’t want to.” The words came soft, gentle, and Thaleon nodded, comforted to hear Cedrik’s words repeated by Laurits.

  “People will hate me, won’t they? Everyone will be scared of me,” said Thaleon, voice small and thick with tears.

  “Yes, and Thaleon”—Laurits coaxed his face up with a gentle finger under the chin—“you must never tell anyone you are a valekyn. Do you understand? You cannot tell anyone. Not even other mages. If it ever got out Cedrik knowingly brought a valekyn to Allesdale, he will be punished severely and you will be executed.”

  Thaleon sniffled. “I understand.” He hastily wiped the tears from his eyes before they could break free.

  Laurits held him for a moment longer before allowing his arm to drop. The tender gesture, reminiscent of the way Dawyn used to comfort him in the past, reminded Thaleon of how much he missed his brother.

  Laurits regarded him for a moment then rose to approach one of the windows of their room.

  He stood motionless before it for a few seconds while elar rose like white smoke from his figure to settle about the edges of the glass. The entire thing repeated when Laurits moved to the next window.

  “What are you doing?”

  Laurits didn’t answer immediately. He made for the door, then again stood motionless as elar settled about the frame. His magic winked out as he turned to face Thaleon.

  “Setting wards,” Laurits said, running a hand through his hair.

  “Do you think we could be attacked here?” Thaleon asked, growing apprehensive as he recalled the bandits.

  “Maybe. Every mage bleeds small bits of magic for several days after their first time. I have been masking your trail with my elar but a skilled mage or wehr may still recognize traces of your val left behind on the road. Wehrs are rewarded for every valekyn they bring to the Crown so I wouldn’t be too surprised if a few are trying to hunt you down.”

  Thaleon, unfamiliar with the word, asked, “What are wehrs?”

  “People who possess the gift of seeing magic but do not have magic themselves. They can manipulate magic to a small extent but can’t do much more than destroy spells. The general public calls them mage hunters since the Crown often uses them to deal with criminal mages.”

  Thaleon frowned, puzzled. “Not everyone can see magic?”

  “No, only mages and wehrs can. See this?” Laurits held up a hand and iridescent white wisps appeared on his palm. “This is elar—light magic. You can see it because you are a mage and so can any wehr. But to anyone else, it just looks like I’m holding up an empty hand.”

  Thaleon watched, fascinated, then recalled his own magic looked different—his magic resembled black shadows. The wisps in Laurits’ hand winked out and the mage dropped his hand to his side.

  “You should go to bed. We leave at first light tomorrow. I’ll be back after setting wards in Cedrik’s room.”

  He left with a quiet click of the door and Thaleon crawled into bed. Under the soft sheets of a bed too big, it wasn’t long before sleep claimed him.

  Thaleon woke early.

  His bleary eyes peered out the window to see the town enveloped in the soft light of the early morning, its streets empty. A white cat sauntered gracefully on the building next to the inn, perhaps returning to its den after a night of hunting. It turned a corner on the roof, disappearing from view.

  “Come on, get up. We need to leave soon.”

  Thaleon startled and saw Laurits already dressed and sitting at the table doing up the final laces of his boots. The mage finished as he watched and rose to throw on the blue jacket he had hung by the door.

  Heat colored Thaleon’s face as he scrambled out of bed. He hurriedly grabbed each of his boots and tugged them on, grateful his lacked the complicated laces of Laurits’ pair. As he had no other clothes, he just made his way towards the full-length mirror in the corner to try to make himself look presentable.

  A thin, tired-looking boy stared back at him. Red rimming his eyes dulled their usual bright golden-brown hue and his black locks lay a mess from tossing and turning all night. The clothes—wrinkled heavily to the point of embarrassment—definitely looked slept in.

  He rubbed his eyes and smoothed down his hair to make them look passable but nothing could be done about the terrible state of his clothes.

  Laurits joined him in front of the mirror fiddling with the cuffs of the blue jacket in perfect condition even after hours of travel the previous day. Their reflections stood together in the mirror and the contrast added to Thaleon’s shame.

  Laurits’ clothes—the same set from the previous day—looked as though they had been freshly laundered and ironed. Thaleon ran a hand down his shirt while he willed away the stubborn wrinkles—it didn’t work.

  “We need to do something about your shirt,” said Laurits, looking pointedly at the sad state of Thaleon’s clothing. “If you look like that while riding around in a lord’s carriage, people are going to talk.”

  “I don’t have any other clothes,” Thaleon said, cheeks burning.

  “I know. I would give you some of mine but they will all be too big.”

  Laurits strode over to the table holding a small pitcher of water and glasses, left by the innkeeper for the convenience of the guests. Under Thaleon’s curious gaze, he poured a bit of water onto his right palm, coating it evenly.

  “Take your shirt off and lay it out on the table.”

  Thaleon obeyed then watched as Laurits ran his hand over the shirt from top to bottom in a smooth continuous motion. Steam rose gently where his palm passed, and wrinkles smoothed out as if a hot iron had pressed over them. Under the steam, Laurits’ elar glowed as it wove through the fabric.

  “Thank you,” said Thaleon when Laurits handed him the shirt. He pulled the shirt over his head and marveled at the way the fabric hung smooth.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Can you teach me how to do that?” Thaleon blurted out then blushed when Laurits smiled in amusement.

  “It’s a simple spell—something I improvised from the necessity of being on the road so often. I use a small amount of elar to generate heat from my hand which causes the water to evaporate, creating steam.” He paused, then said, “Remind me when we get to Allesdale. I will teach you then.”

 

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