Chapter 2

Reign of Tiryam Edgarro

The City of Fairrod, Astoria Grove

Orion Manor

Year 736, Winter

"Must you venture out so late without even a cloak?" chided a silver-haired man. Frey guessed he must be at least in his sixties by the look of the lines on his face. "You'll catch a cold and then it'll be even more work for Martha."

Frey was almost surprised to see Orithin, tall and grand, shrink in front of the thin and rather unimpressive man. She couldn't imagine how powerful a mage the elderly man must have been to make a wizard cower.

"Harrod, I made a friend," Orithin announced loftily, impelling Frey out in front of him like a shield. His hands—at least double the size of a normal person's—were clasped firmly on her shoulders. On her part, Frey tried to look as menacing as she could. "She's got a bit of dirt around the edges as you can see, but I think she's got promise."

Frey blushed scarlet under her layer of dirt as Harrod fixed his gaze at her. She stared back—fiercely she hoped—wearing her bruises and scrapes like battle wounds.

"Why does she glare so angrily?" Harrod asked, looking astonished.

"That's her way of saying hello." Orithin released her and rubbed his stomach, licking his lips. "Anyway—I'm famished."

Much to her surprise, Harrod bowed deeply, with one hand at his waist. It was a servant's bow. "I expected as much, Master Orithin. I took the liberty of having Cook whip up something."

"You're a delight, Harrod," Orithin burst out, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "I think I will head up to my room for a bit. If you could have Martha take Anna to the baths? Let her use the ones on the second floor." He winked at her. "My favorite soaps are there."

Harrod sighed. "Your favorite soaps are in every bath on every floor. Don't you remember you asked for precisely that?"

Orithin's grin faded and he glowered at Harrod. "Don't ruin this. I'm trying my best to appear exceptionally hospitable. We rarely get guests, after all."

"You chase them away, if I remember correctly. Now, if you'll follow me, Miss Anna?"

The wizard waved to her as she trailed after the elderly servant. It seemed the number of twists and turns were endless. Frey wondered how anyone could keep track of them all. Through one door, down one corridor, and then another turn and another door. Harrod strode ahead confidently, occasionally pointing out particularly interesting objects, like the cleaning supplies closet and "Master Orithin's wall-drawings from when he was a wee boy".

They went up a rickety spiraling staircase that didn't seem entirely safe to use and ended up in front of a door with "Baths" etched into its surface.

"Here you are, Miss Anna. I'll have Martha come up and help you wash up."

"There's no need," she said quickly, not wanting to bother anyone. "I can manage just fine on my own."

Harrod nodded sympathetically. "If you're sure. The bath should already be running."

"Thank you," said Frey, meaning it.

The hot bath was every bit as wonderful as Frey had hoped. It seemed Harrod had ignored her and had Martha come anyway. No matter how much the plump housemaid reassured her she had seen all sorts of messes, Frey refused her help. The kind-looking woman would only fuss over her if she let her help, and Frey was looking forward to sitting in some hot water for a time.

After the shock of escaping the slaveship had worn off, exhaustion had slowly but steadily set in. It felt like even her bones had taken a beating. Her bruises throbbed and her many cuts and scrapes where the whip had bit too hard began to twinge painfully. Even so, she stripped down and jumped into the hot, perfumed water.

As she bathed, Frey felt around the slave collar on her neck. For some reason, the magic cast used on the collar—magic that was supposed to choke her if she ran too far from her owners—had ceased to work. Maybe Orithin's magic was simply stronger and whatever spell he had used on her had broken it.

Frey had a second idea, slightly less likely but still possible. It was her guess that the collar's magic had been undone by hers. It was a type she hadn't heard of before—there didn't exist undetectable magic she didn't think—so it wasn't such an impermissible thought to think her magic had broken that on the collar.

A grim smile set on her lips as Frey realized something else. The collar was no longer magic. She could take it off. Taking a deep breath, Frey conjured a simple blue flame in the tips of her fingers and held it to the collar. When the leather cracked and split, Frey ripped it from her neck so hard she was sure it left a mark and flung it as far from her as possible.

Breathing hard, Frey sank deeper into the steaming water, savoring the first taste of freedom she'd had in months. She stifled a moan as the soapy water stung her numerous cuts. It wasn't long before she realized not all the water on her face was bathwater. Softly at first, and then all at once, Frey cried. Her shoulders heaved up and down and her breath came shallowly. The flood of emotions that suddenly pulse through her was overwhelming and bewildering.

Anger at her slave owners.

Sadness at having escaped by herself.

Elation at having taken off the wretched slave collar at last.

Satisfaction at having gotten away.

Tiredness, fear, rage, loneliness, and revulsion, too.

It didn't last very long. Frey wiped her eyes and steadied herself, feeling calm again.

The perfumed water wasn't nearly strong enough to mask the grit of months of blood and dust. Frey drew her knees to her chest and watched as the water she was soaking in changed color. The dirt that clung to her skin became wet and dark, mingling with the water. Wanting the bath to last as long as possible, she closed her eyes and allowed the water to cover her shoulders, neck, and then submerged underneath all the way.

Frey opened her eyes underwater and through her bleary vision saw as the grime left her tangled nest of hair in swirls that colored the rest of the bath water ash. She emerged from the water, breathing deeply.

Now she was really glad she had made Martha leave. No matter how nice she was, Frey doubted she would have been able to stomach the grime that washed off her.

When she thought she had soaked enough, Frey decided to tend to her wounds. She spotted a small corked jar full of some pale, pinkish liquid. Martha had brought it to her when she had asked for bandages. She stared at it, trying to decide if she should ask again.

"Master Orithin," Harrod's voice floated in from the hallway. "Your dinner is ready."

"Did you set the table for two?" Frey jumped, not having realized that Orithin was right outside the door. Was he waiting for her to be done? From their earlier conversation, it seemed like the extravagant house contained several baths. Then again, Orithin did seem like he preferred this specific one.

A pause. "You want your guest to dine with you?"

"Is that a difficult request?"

"No, of course not. You usually dine alone so I had Martha bring up Miss Anna's dinner to the Flower Room."

"Nonsense," insisted Orithin. "We'll dine together. You, too, Harrod. I think the table's big enough for all of us..."

Frey stood up, displacing the grimy water in ripples. They were waiting for her to be done so they could eat. It was selfish of her to spend so much time in the bath. She climbed out of the warm, grimy water and sat on the floor, still eyeing the jar with apprehension.

She made a grab for it and nearly knocked it over. Making sure it wouldn't slip in her grip, she popped off the cork and examined its contents. A strong metallic smell wafted up to her nostrils, making her sneeze. Against her better judgment, Frey dipped the very tip of her finger in the translucent liquid suspiciously and withdrew it. The pink stuff was viscous and filmy, but it seemed to be harmless.

"Bandages," she told herself in disbelief. The closest she could think of were the vials of menders that the market mages sold at obscene prices. Of course, Frey had never used them before but she had seen the bottles for sale occasionally.

She applied a little to a gash on her wrist and watched as the wound smoked and closed. It didn't hurt, really. It smarted a little and felt very hot but it was nothing compared to the whip or Roric's riding crop. The cut looked like it had completely disappeared but when Frey held her wrist up to her eyes she saw the barest trace of a scar.

Mystified, she applied the medicine to all her wounds, amazed at how they vanished, leaving the silvery trail of a scar in its wake. Even the worst of her wounds, a mess of scars half-healed and congealed blood around her neck where she had been chained to the wall with her collar, was completely healed by the medicine.

"Magic," she said aloud. "Wow."

Even though Frey had magic of her own, all she had known about it was how dangerous and unpredictable it could be. The slave sellers spoke about it in hushed voices, and the mages she had met were treated with fear rather than respect.

Mages, she thought, not wizards.

She knew of wizards, of course. It was rare that a person didn't. On a hierarchical level, mages were like foot soldiers. Everyday mages like the one Roric had employed to check for magic were fairly common and could be found in most cities, though people tended to avoid them all the same.

Wizards, in a way, were like knights of the realm, revered and treated with utmost respect. It was a title; mages that were particularly strong became wizards. Only an idiot dared to use the name of wizard casually. Garen had told her a story about a wizard who had razed an entire city to the ground in a rage.

Orithin said he was a wizard. Orithin with his obsidian eyes and unruly black locks.

I help all the pretty girls.

Frey had imagined a wizard to be an old man with a long gray beard and knobby knees who shot lightning from his fists and oozed poison from his pores.

Yet, Orithin had given her this jar of medicine full of complex magic. They couldn't be all bad, could they?

"Anna?" A sharp rap on the door startled her. "Will you be much longer?"

"Just a mo'!" she called back, and slipped into the water again. Frey blinked in surprise. When she had left the water to clean her cuts, it had been murky with dirt and dried blood, only lukewarm. Now it was clear and hot again, with steam rising in puffs. A grin lit her face and she whispered with astonishment, "Magic!"

Frey scrubbed every inch of her until her skin was pink and positively glowing. The soap did a very thorough job of cleaning the grime from her body and she wondered briefly if that was magicked as well. It smelled faintly of oranges and something floral that she couldn't place. Her hair had been hardest to wash, as the knots and tangles had become only worse with water and soap. She pulled her fingers through it roughly, trying to get the worst of the kinks free. Her head hurt and her scalp was sore by the time she had finished, but from the way her hair felt squeaky clean it was well worth the effort.

She clambered out of the basin again and wrapped herself in the fluffy towel that had been left her for her by Martha. Frey tried to be fast but the soft material was hard to part from. She reached for her clothes but realized they had been replaced. Martha had probably done it. Frey stared down at a large silk shirt, loincloth, and a thick white band that was to go around her chest.

Once she had dried off and changed, Frey tried to clean up the mess she had made as best she could. The pool of mud—there really was no better way to put it—that she had made on the floor she tried to mop up with the towel but she only made it worse. Now the towel was wet and muddy, no longer soft and fluffy. Before she left the room, she stood on tiptoe to look into the basin again to marvel at the crystal clear contents steaming once more. She dipped her fingers into it, grinning again.

"What?" Frey asked, self-conscious when she entered the dining room at last. Orithin had been in the middle of a sentence about a spell he'd been working on when he stopped abruptly, motionless.

"I didn't realize your hair was such a light shade of brown," he said at last, tearing his eyes away from her. Self-conscious, Frey touched her brown locks, clean for the first time in months. The last time she had seen it this color was when she had woken up on that ship months ago. "Sit, sit."

Frey sat, feeling awkward. "Thank you for the medicine," she said stiffly, suddenly conscious of the fact that she was dressed only in a shirt. As she shifted, the garment slid around on her shoulders. It was the first time she had ever worn anything so rich.

"Yes, I made it myself," Orithin said conversationally. "The key ingredient is the root of a fairnsfern plant. Tricky to grow but I've managed somehow."

"Hm," she said. Just then her stomach growled, breaking the tension between them. Orithin guffawed—a loud, catching laugh that was infectious—and clapped his hands together.

"Let's eat, then!"

At first, Frey didn't contribute much to the conversation, choosing instead to dive into the delicious roast chicken and freshly baked bread with relish. She simply listened to Orithin and Harrod, who, for all he was a servant, was very knowledgeable in the political affairs of the Great Lands.

"The king made a mistake," he said, cutting a large portion of the chicken and placing it on Orithin's plate. Frey was startled at the interaction but her mouth was too full of mashed potatoes for her to remark. Orithin thanked him and cut a smaller piece of the chicken. He chewed thoughtfully, his chin bobbing as he listened. "Sorram needs the river in order to do trade with Lysandria but now that King Tyram cut it off, there's going to be conflict."

Orithin speared a large amount of spinach onto his fork, grimaced, and began to eat it all at once. "Well," he said, through his mouthful of vegetable, "I agree with you, of course, Harrod. I just wish he'd listen to reason."

"Mind, eat some of your vegetables, Miss Anna," Harrod chided, spooning some corn onto her plate.

Frey must have made a face because Orithin laughed that infectious laugh again, before being silenced by Harrod who spooned corn onto his plate as well. He sighed heavily and dug in, looking as if he were losing a battle.

She hesitated, and then muttered, "My name is Frey." Not entirely sure they had heard, Frey looked around and saw they hadn't reacted.

"Sorry there's not much in the way of clothes that I could offer," Orithin said. He made a gesture in mid-air with his hand, and the jug of juice hovered over his glass. It poured him some red-colored juice. Frey watched, entranced. "That there is my shirt you're wearing."

She blinked, looking down. She was wearing his shirt? Well, it was so long that it reached almost to her knees. It might have well been a tunic on her. "Is it magic as well?"

He grinned and shook his head. "Not everything I have is magic, Frey." Her stomach did a flip when she heard her name. So he had heard. Frey looked around again to see if either Martha or Harrod cared but they didn't appear to have noticed.

"Not entirely true," Martha said, pouring a cup of juice for her. "All Master Orithin's shirts are made of a special fabric. Dirt-repellant and water resistant. He has a habit of rolling around in mud, see."

Frey snorted into her cup.

"Well, Martha was forever complaining of all the scrubbing she had to do," retorted Orithin, brandishing a bit of speared chicken at her. "I think I did her a favor."

"Oh, bother." Martha rolled her eyes and turned to Frey. "I mentioned it once and now he never lets me forget it. Well, I never let him forget that time he came in and he was completely covered in cow dung..."

It was all very enjoyable, and Frey could hardly believe it was only hours ago she had run away from her slave seller. Though she had been extremely suspicious of Orithin at first, Martha and Harrod put her worries at ease. She had never seen servants so happy before. She supposed it meant Orithin was a good master, if there indeed could be such a thing. Not too long into the meal did Frey start getting very warm and very sleepy. Her eyes drooped, and her head dipped to the side as she accidently dozed.

"I think our guest is falling asleep," Martha noted, a smile tucked into the corner of her lips.

"I'll take her up to her room," Orithin said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and standing up. Frey wanted to protest but her mouth felt too heavy to even open. She was scooped up by the wizard, who was surprisingly strong for his thin—albeit bony—build. "You're much too light," he remarked as they moved away from the table. His voice was low and soft. She was close enough that she could smell the soap on him, the very soap she had used earlier.

Instead of replying, Frey blinked blearily at the star-shaped earrings dangling from his earlobes. They sparkled as they danced.

Orithin carried her up the stairs and down a dark corridor. He whispered, "Illumite," tickling her cheek with his breath. The corridor was suddenly filled with a blue-green glow. At a door to his right, the wizard whistled. The door swung open as if commanded. He placed her gently on the bed and draped the covers around her. "Sleep well, Freya," he said softly, tucking her in.

Before she had completely surrendered to sleep, Frey watched Orithin's movements. Through her half-closed lashes, she thought she saw him reach out a hand to touch her hair. His fingers paused an inch away. In the next moment, he had pulled away, turning his back on her. Orithin left the room and whistled again, letting the door close quietly behind him.

-

Although she was exhausted and feeling like every muscle in her body had been thoroughly pummeled, Frey awoke before dawn, wide-eyed and afraid. In her sleep, she had managed to twist the sheets around her in a make-shift cocoon. When she freed herself from the covers, Frey realized she was covered in a thin sheen of her own sweat.

Forcing herself to take deep, steadying breaths, Frey calmed down enough to remember she was safe and not on that wretched ship. The nightmare that had awoken her had dissolved, and try as she might, she couldn't remember what it had been about.

Deciding she couldn't sleep, Frey slipped out of the bed and tiptoed to the door. The wooden floorboards were cold but she didn't mind. At least she hadn't woken up in the damp, humid room in the slave ship. Wanting something to wet her parched throat, Frey left the comfort of her room and began down the steps. The blue-green glow that had lit the hallways from last night was gone now and the house—four stories and counting—was mostly dark.

"We agree, then," came a voice from the first floor landing. Freya recognized Orithin's voice. About to greet him, she froze at the last step when he uttered the last words she had expected: "Fifty copper coins for the girl."

"Yes, well. The girl was very troublesome, especially with the... accident last night." It felt like her heart had stopped beating for a moment. The greasy, unctuous voice was one she recognized well. Fear rose up her spine and filled her head. Frey had to remind herself to breathe properly.

"Pleasure doing business with you, then."

"Likewise, Master Orion."

Orion?

More importantly, why was Orithin doing business this early in the morning?

Frey crept to the door kept slightly ajar and nearly tripped in her hurry to get away. So she had heard correctly. It was Roric's brother and comrade in the slave trade. Her heart thumping rapidly, she raced back up the stairs as fast and as quietly as she could, trying to understand. If Dorack—the slimy, lying bastard—was here, it could only mean one thing.

Fifty copper coins for the girl.

He was here to take her back.

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