Mage Slave
Page 81
Strange. Amid all this talk of options, Daes had framed the discussion around his death—where, when, and how. Not if. They had yet to mention that he was a mage or any chance of enslavement. Were they hiding it from him? Aven stifled a grin. They didn’t want him to know they had failed. That there was someone who could resist them.
That was it, wasn’t it?
“What do you think, Your Majesty?” asked the woman.
There was a long moment of silence, in which Aven began to wonder if he was missing something he could not hear and if he should open his eyes. But then the king finally spoke.
“These are all worthy options. But I must say, I lean toward the original plan. His immediate death.”
“Of course, my lord,” Daes said quickly.
“Are you certain, Cousin?” said the woman. “What is the rush to kill him? Let us make some use of him and then kill him.”
“I have decided. What is the rush? I want our people to know that our justice is swift, our memory is long, and our wrath is unending. He will serve as an example of the age that is to come.”
“Huzzah,” she said, a touch of awe in her voice. Well, perhaps this fool did have his kingly moments, even if it was only via hellfire and brimstone.
Daes spoke into the silence. “I have one more course of action that has just occurred to me, Your Majesty.” What could this be?
“Let’s have it.”
“The mage who captured him has proven herself very talented. She’s observed him for nearly a week on their journey here. She knows him well now. What if we kill him and then send her back in his place, disguised as his likeness?”
Aven gasped. He could not think of a worse hell for Miara—to pretend to be him in front of all those who missed him, all those whom she’d betrayed by bringing him here. Pure torture.
“What was that?” said the woman’s voice.
Aven felt a boot nudge his shoulder, seeking to roll him onto his back. He winced in spite of himself—there was more than one wound there at this point.
“He’s awake,” the king said.
Aven opened his eyes. Indeed, it was Demikin, fool king of Kavanar. They had never met in person, but he bore a resemblance to his etchings and paintings, if much more sour looking. He was middle-aged, with a stout midsection. Probably shorter than Aven, with a balding head and blond beard. His hands bore many rings, among them a large, peculiar ruby on his left hand. He smelled of garlic and fish, and Aven frowned up at him. The king glared back.
The air around Aven had begun to move. He didn’t fight it. Not his usual swirling, idle wind, but violent, unpredictable darts. It nipped at the king’s robes, the guards’ hair and tunics. The tapestries on the nearby wall began to sway. The king eyed the wall and the now sporadically flickering torches.
“Is this how you always greet foreign dignitaries?” Aven grunted.
“If I have the option,” the king replied with a dark smile.
“Get him on his feet,” Daes ordered the guards, clearly annoyed. A conscious Aven could reveal his secret, adding even more urgency to their current plan.
The king turned to Daes. “I didn’t call you the brains of this effort for nothing. It shall be done—we have our plan. Let’s have this calf slaughtered and be done with it.”
Excruciating shots of pain ran through him as the same guards hauled him to his feet unceremoniously. The air darted more viciously at that, reaching farther from him. It whipped at the fire and the candlesticks on their feasting table.
What could he do if he didn’t hold back? Casel help me, he thought. He focused on the feasting table, the king, the fireplace.
“Should I call for the…” The woman trailed off when she noticed the candles in front of her had just gone out. The king’s cape whipped over his shoulder awkwardly and sent him stumbling to the right. The nearest tapestry clanged against the wall.
“What the—” the king started.
Daes stood and recklessly kicked his chair out of the way, rounding the table and coming straight for him.
Aven knew the look on his face—a mixture of determination and bloodlust. He had no intention of having his secret revealed.
“Make him kneel,” the Dark Master ordered.
“Daes—by Nefrana—not in here!” the woman snapped.
“Shut up,” the Dark Master said coldly. Daes strode to the wall where a sword and battle ax hung beside a torch. He took the claymore and unsheathed it, tossing the sheath aside.
Didn’t he know an ax would be far better for an execution? Of course, this superior knowledge of human butchery wasn’t getting Aven anywhere at the moment.
The guards had hesitated, but at Daes’s approach, they finally pushed Aven to his knees. The king swept himself to a position by the fire, probably afraid of getting his robes sullied with foreign blood.
“You said you’d prepared the court—” the woman started again.
The air in the room had almost risen to a wind. The fire wavered mightily, smoke now billowing in the king’s direction. He strode away toward the fresh air coming in from the hall, coughing in annoyance.
Daes met Aven’s eyes and laid the flat edge of the blade on his shoulder, the edge of the cold steel barely grazing the skin of his neck.
Aven tore his eyes from Daes, focusing them on the dark marble below. He sucked in the deepest breath he could and held it, frantically trying to gather any energy he could from the light and air around him. He felt the heat in him rise hotter, hotter still.
He would only have one shot at this. He could not fail.
“Your Majesty,” the Dark Master demanded, “I am sworn to uphold your will. Is it your wish that I should kill this man?”
The king did not hesitate. “Yes. Be done with it, and let our war begin.”
The guards released Aven’s arms and backed away hastily in either direction as Daes drew back the sword.
Time seemed to slow. Aven felt as though he could watch the sword rise for as long as he might have liked, that if he wished, he could have taken days for it to return along its path back toward Aven and the earth. Aven had all the time in the world. All the time he could possibly need.
He released his breath, and with it, he hurled every bit of the heat in him in one powerful burst out in all directions, but chiefly straight at Daes’s chest.
And for once—for once, finally—it worked.
That was it, wasn’t it?
“What do you think, Your Majesty?” asked the woman.
There was a long moment of silence, in which Aven began to wonder if he was missing something he could not hear and if he should open his eyes. But then the king finally spoke.
“These are all worthy options. But I must say, I lean toward the original plan. His immediate death.”
“Of course, my lord,” Daes said quickly.
“Are you certain, Cousin?” said the woman. “What is the rush to kill him? Let us make some use of him and then kill him.”
“I have decided. What is the rush? I want our people to know that our justice is swift, our memory is long, and our wrath is unending. He will serve as an example of the age that is to come.”
“Huzzah,” she said, a touch of awe in her voice. Well, perhaps this fool did have his kingly moments, even if it was only via hellfire and brimstone.
Daes spoke into the silence. “I have one more course of action that has just occurred to me, Your Majesty.” What could this be?
“Let’s have it.”
“The mage who captured him has proven herself very talented. She’s observed him for nearly a week on their journey here. She knows him well now. What if we kill him and then send her back in his place, disguised as his likeness?”
Aven gasped. He could not think of a worse hell for Miara—to pretend to be him in front of all those who missed him, all those whom she’d betrayed by bringing him here. Pure torture.
“What was that?” said the woman’s voice.
Aven felt a boot nudge his shoulder, seeking to roll him onto his back. He winced in spite of himself—there was more than one wound there at this point.
“He’s awake,” the king said.
Aven opened his eyes. Indeed, it was Demikin, fool king of Kavanar. They had never met in person, but he bore a resemblance to his etchings and paintings, if much more sour looking. He was middle-aged, with a stout midsection. Probably shorter than Aven, with a balding head and blond beard. His hands bore many rings, among them a large, peculiar ruby on his left hand. He smelled of garlic and fish, and Aven frowned up at him. The king glared back.
The air around Aven had begun to move. He didn’t fight it. Not his usual swirling, idle wind, but violent, unpredictable darts. It nipped at the king’s robes, the guards’ hair and tunics. The tapestries on the nearby wall began to sway. The king eyed the wall and the now sporadically flickering torches.
“Is this how you always greet foreign dignitaries?” Aven grunted.
“If I have the option,” the king replied with a dark smile.
“Get him on his feet,” Daes ordered the guards, clearly annoyed. A conscious Aven could reveal his secret, adding even more urgency to their current plan.
The king turned to Daes. “I didn’t call you the brains of this effort for nothing. It shall be done—we have our plan. Let’s have this calf slaughtered and be done with it.”
Excruciating shots of pain ran through him as the same guards hauled him to his feet unceremoniously. The air darted more viciously at that, reaching farther from him. It whipped at the fire and the candlesticks on their feasting table.
What could he do if he didn’t hold back? Casel help me, he thought. He focused on the feasting table, the king, the fireplace.
“Should I call for the…” The woman trailed off when she noticed the candles in front of her had just gone out. The king’s cape whipped over his shoulder awkwardly and sent him stumbling to the right. The nearest tapestry clanged against the wall.
“What the—” the king started.
Daes stood and recklessly kicked his chair out of the way, rounding the table and coming straight for him.
Aven knew the look on his face—a mixture of determination and bloodlust. He had no intention of having his secret revealed.
“Make him kneel,” the Dark Master ordered.
“Daes—by Nefrana—not in here!” the woman snapped.
“Shut up,” the Dark Master said coldly. Daes strode to the wall where a sword and battle ax hung beside a torch. He took the claymore and unsheathed it, tossing the sheath aside.
Didn’t he know an ax would be far better for an execution? Of course, this superior knowledge of human butchery wasn’t getting Aven anywhere at the moment.
The guards had hesitated, but at Daes’s approach, they finally pushed Aven to his knees. The king swept himself to a position by the fire, probably afraid of getting his robes sullied with foreign blood.
“You said you’d prepared the court—” the woman started again.
The air in the room had almost risen to a wind. The fire wavered mightily, smoke now billowing in the king’s direction. He strode away toward the fresh air coming in from the hall, coughing in annoyance.
Daes met Aven’s eyes and laid the flat edge of the blade on his shoulder, the edge of the cold steel barely grazing the skin of his neck.
Aven tore his eyes from Daes, focusing them on the dark marble below. He sucked in the deepest breath he could and held it, frantically trying to gather any energy he could from the light and air around him. He felt the heat in him rise hotter, hotter still.
He would only have one shot at this. He could not fail.
“Your Majesty,” the Dark Master demanded, “I am sworn to uphold your will. Is it your wish that I should kill this man?”
The king did not hesitate. “Yes. Be done with it, and let our war begin.”
The guards released Aven’s arms and backed away hastily in either direction as Daes drew back the sword.
Time seemed to slow. Aven felt as though he could watch the sword rise for as long as he might have liked, that if he wished, he could have taken days for it to return along its path back toward Aven and the earth. Aven had all the time in the world. All the time he could possibly need.
He released his breath, and with it, he hurled every bit of the heat in him in one powerful burst out in all directions, but chiefly straight at Daes’s chest.
And for once—for once, finally—it worked.
