Mage Slave
Page 55
Her heart suddenly ached in her chest. The pang was more sincere and more painful than any in her shoulder could be. The pain was her own. A wave of longing for him flooded her, irrational and stupid, but honest. She had tried not to admit the way he made her feel. How could she, when she was taking him to them? How could she admit the way she felt when he looked at her, or the thrill she’d felt at the wispy tendril of his thoughts, as though she could already feel him kissing her neck? She had already felt it, in her soul. How could she stand those feelings in her mind right beside the knowledge that she was most likely the instrument of his death?
Or… perhaps not. She caught her breath, then hoped no one would notice. She might be defeated, but he had defeated them. She had never had a chance of beating them—but he had. Wasn’t it far better for him to have his freedom, to exact some justice in the world? That was a worthy failure indeed. If he had escaped her, she should rejoice in her own defeat. Through it, he had defeated her Masters. What more could she want?
Darkly, selfishly, she knew of one thing more she wanted. To have him as her own, to get to really feel those lips on her neck. But she hated herself for wanting him, because she couldn’t have him without his own enslavement. She didn’t want anyone to have to endure that, let alone a man who longed to do so much good for the world, who had the power to do it—if he were free. If he were not with her. She knew his freedom was worth her failure.
The pain in her shoulder intensified to a dull, insistent cramp, but with a touch of burning at the edges. Her bond was displeased. And yet, it did not insist she ride for Mage Hall. Either it knew that was impossible without more rest, or perhaps it was weaker this far from Mage Hall. She doubted that.
In spite of the nagging pain, she felt her heart growing lighter. A weight had been lifted. She ought to be filled with dread. Certainly, the Dark Master would do his worst. Perhaps she would find out what happened to Dekana firsthand. But… Aven was free.
She asked the old man for more food. He told her his name was Regin and brought her a hearty soup, a crust of hard bread, and even some ale. She ate it with relish now and listened as one nomad, then another told stories. She finished eating and sipped the ale as a pair of sisters brought out some drums and a flute and began to sing. The ale was probably a bad idea. She didn’t care. What was a small celebration without ale? But the taste was bittersweet.
As she listened and sipped, she began to feel that someone was watching her. At first, she ignored it. She was surrounded by strangers who had a right to stare. A new person among them was an object of curiosity, especially one that had saved someone’s life. But as the feeling persisted, her eyes darted to the other fire circles. None of the nomads were watching her, all caught up in the entrancing song. Still, the feeling did not pass.
And then—the next time that she glanced around—there he was.
It was as if time had slowed and stopped. Her heart leapt, and she heaved in a ragged breath. Aven stood just outside of the firelight. He leaned against a tree, watching her. Their eyes locked. His twinkled with laughter and the flickering firelight. Was he a ghost? Was she dreaming? Was she delirious and needed more rest? She stood and strode toward him, leaving the circle. None of them seemed to notice. She stopped just short of him.
They simply met each other’s gaze for a long moment. It was as if they were meeting for the first time, as if they were two free creatures coming together in the night. Everything about him seemed strangely clearer and more vivid. A halo of firelight danced across the stubble on his chin, the pale green glitter of his eyes, the cut of his shoulders, and his arms folded across his chest. She could feel his breath, his gaze on her skin.
How would things have been different if they’d met in other lives? Could she have been just another lowly peasant in the crowd around a handsome soon-to-be-king? Would he have noticed her? Could he have been just another farmer in her village? Would they have found each other if either of them had been born free? There was no point to this flight of fancy. They were not free. They never had been. Neither of them had any choice in their fates, whatever they may be.
“What are you doing here?” she said, blurting out the only thing she could think to say.
“What kind of question is that?” he said, laughing. “Where else would I be?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You could’ve run. You’re still here.”
His face grew serious, although he still smiled. He said nothing.
“You didn’t run. Why? You could’ve run.”
He shrugged and looked into the fire. He was silent for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said eventually, now meeting her eyes. “I could’ve.”
“You should’ve run.” She gritted her teeth angrily through the flash of pain.
He shrugged again and turned his eyes back to the fire. “Maybe.”
“But you didn’t. Why?” she whispered, heart aching.
“You really don’t know?” He met her eyes with a small smile.
All of her lightness had evaporated, and the weight that returned felt twice as heavy. The drums of the nomads pounded darkly in time with her heart. The Masters were not defeated. Aven was still here. They would still enslave him or kill him. She would still have to watch. She felt tears forming in her eyes and frantically tried to blink them away. How could he not leave? She rushed toward him then and pounded her fists against his shoulders, feeling the hot tears in her eyes and struggling to hide them. “Damn it, Aven! Why! You should have run—damn it! Damn you!”
He caught a fist mid-thrust, then grabbed her other arm and held her tight against him, trying to calm her. She fought, then collapsed against his chest in defeat, trying to swallow the emotion and exhaustion that overtook her.
Her ear against his chest, she could hear him breathing now. She could hear his heart beating. The beats of hearts and drums steadied her somewhat. She straightened and stared at him. His face was fraught with emotion that she couldn’t read. He had such a noble face—indeed, the kind a king should have. Nothing like their sniveling king in Kavanar. Aven seemed filled with wisdom beyond his years, the weight of heavy decisions on his brow. He was staring hard into her eyes, his jaw tight.
“Everyone would probably be happier if I’d run,” he said. “But I don’t care. I’m not going to.”
She caught her breath at the determination in his voice. It was a voice people would follow to their deaths, a voice that could command thousands. But gods, why? Why was he so determined about this of all things—gods, please, make him run away from me. Ice stabbed into her shoulder, pain shooting along her collarbone and toward her heart at the openly rebellious prayer, sending needles down her leg, up her neck, making her cry out.
Or… perhaps not. She caught her breath, then hoped no one would notice. She might be defeated, but he had defeated them. She had never had a chance of beating them—but he had. Wasn’t it far better for him to have his freedom, to exact some justice in the world? That was a worthy failure indeed. If he had escaped her, she should rejoice in her own defeat. Through it, he had defeated her Masters. What more could she want?
Darkly, selfishly, she knew of one thing more she wanted. To have him as her own, to get to really feel those lips on her neck. But she hated herself for wanting him, because she couldn’t have him without his own enslavement. She didn’t want anyone to have to endure that, let alone a man who longed to do so much good for the world, who had the power to do it—if he were free. If he were not with her. She knew his freedom was worth her failure.
The pain in her shoulder intensified to a dull, insistent cramp, but with a touch of burning at the edges. Her bond was displeased. And yet, it did not insist she ride for Mage Hall. Either it knew that was impossible without more rest, or perhaps it was weaker this far from Mage Hall. She doubted that.
In spite of the nagging pain, she felt her heart growing lighter. A weight had been lifted. She ought to be filled with dread. Certainly, the Dark Master would do his worst. Perhaps she would find out what happened to Dekana firsthand. But… Aven was free.
She asked the old man for more food. He told her his name was Regin and brought her a hearty soup, a crust of hard bread, and even some ale. She ate it with relish now and listened as one nomad, then another told stories. She finished eating and sipped the ale as a pair of sisters brought out some drums and a flute and began to sing. The ale was probably a bad idea. She didn’t care. What was a small celebration without ale? But the taste was bittersweet.
As she listened and sipped, she began to feel that someone was watching her. At first, she ignored it. She was surrounded by strangers who had a right to stare. A new person among them was an object of curiosity, especially one that had saved someone’s life. But as the feeling persisted, her eyes darted to the other fire circles. None of the nomads were watching her, all caught up in the entrancing song. Still, the feeling did not pass.
And then—the next time that she glanced around—there he was.
It was as if time had slowed and stopped. Her heart leapt, and she heaved in a ragged breath. Aven stood just outside of the firelight. He leaned against a tree, watching her. Their eyes locked. His twinkled with laughter and the flickering firelight. Was he a ghost? Was she dreaming? Was she delirious and needed more rest? She stood and strode toward him, leaving the circle. None of them seemed to notice. She stopped just short of him.
They simply met each other’s gaze for a long moment. It was as if they were meeting for the first time, as if they were two free creatures coming together in the night. Everything about him seemed strangely clearer and more vivid. A halo of firelight danced across the stubble on his chin, the pale green glitter of his eyes, the cut of his shoulders, and his arms folded across his chest. She could feel his breath, his gaze on her skin.
How would things have been different if they’d met in other lives? Could she have been just another lowly peasant in the crowd around a handsome soon-to-be-king? Would he have noticed her? Could he have been just another farmer in her village? Would they have found each other if either of them had been born free? There was no point to this flight of fancy. They were not free. They never had been. Neither of them had any choice in their fates, whatever they may be.
“What are you doing here?” she said, blurting out the only thing she could think to say.
“What kind of question is that?” he said, laughing. “Where else would I be?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You could’ve run. You’re still here.”
His face grew serious, although he still smiled. He said nothing.
“You didn’t run. Why? You could’ve run.”
He shrugged and looked into the fire. He was silent for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said eventually, now meeting her eyes. “I could’ve.”
“You should’ve run.” She gritted her teeth angrily through the flash of pain.
He shrugged again and turned his eyes back to the fire. “Maybe.”
“But you didn’t. Why?” she whispered, heart aching.
“You really don’t know?” He met her eyes with a small smile.
All of her lightness had evaporated, and the weight that returned felt twice as heavy. The drums of the nomads pounded darkly in time with her heart. The Masters were not defeated. Aven was still here. They would still enslave him or kill him. She would still have to watch. She felt tears forming in her eyes and frantically tried to blink them away. How could he not leave? She rushed toward him then and pounded her fists against his shoulders, feeling the hot tears in her eyes and struggling to hide them. “Damn it, Aven! Why! You should have run—damn it! Damn you!”
He caught a fist mid-thrust, then grabbed her other arm and held her tight against him, trying to calm her. She fought, then collapsed against his chest in defeat, trying to swallow the emotion and exhaustion that overtook her.
Her ear against his chest, she could hear him breathing now. She could hear his heart beating. The beats of hearts and drums steadied her somewhat. She straightened and stared at him. His face was fraught with emotion that she couldn’t read. He had such a noble face—indeed, the kind a king should have. Nothing like their sniveling king in Kavanar. Aven seemed filled with wisdom beyond his years, the weight of heavy decisions on his brow. He was staring hard into her eyes, his jaw tight.
“Everyone would probably be happier if I’d run,” he said. “But I don’t care. I’m not going to.”
She caught her breath at the determination in his voice. It was a voice people would follow to their deaths, a voice that could command thousands. But gods, why? Why was he so determined about this of all things—gods, please, make him run away from me. Ice stabbed into her shoulder, pain shooting along her collarbone and toward her heart at the openly rebellious prayer, sending needles down her leg, up her neck, making her cry out.
