“Our mistress is kind and does not deserve this,” one of the slaves told Frentis, a woman of matronly appearance garbed in cloth noticeably less threadbare than most slaves they had encountered. Her fellow slaves were also similarly well attired and he saw little evidence of any scars. This plantation was also unusual in being the only one so far where they had failed to find a single overseer and featured only four poorly maintained Varitai, all but one easily captured.
Frentis looked at the woman in the centre of the cordon, seeing how she avoided his gaze, stoic in refusing to acknowledge an inferior. “Your mistress has grown wealthy on your labour,” he told the matronly woman. “If she’s so kind, why doesn’t she free you? Come with us and know freedom.”
It did no good, they all stood in place and proved deaf to any further persuasion.
“Kill them, brother,” one of the Realm folk said, the former blacksmith from their first raid, snarling as he spat at the cordon of slaves. “They betray us with this disgusting servility.”
There was a growl of agreement from the other slaves and, he noticed, not all of them Realm folk. The freed fighters were becoming more fierce with every raid, each overseer or master they tormented to death seeming to stoke a greater bloodlust. “Freedom is a choice,” he told them, “gather up these supplies and prepare to march.”
The blacksmith grunted in frustration, pointing his sword at the straight-backed mistress. “What about the old bitch? Put an arrow in her and they might see sense.”
He staggered as Illian appeared at his side and delivered a swift punch to his jaw. “This enterprise is under the command of the Sixth Order,” she told him, “and the Order does not make war on old women.” Her hand went to her sword as he rounded on her, spitting blood. “Question Brother Frentis again,” she continued, voice flat and unwavering, “and we’ll settle this with steel. Now pack up and move.”
• • •
That evening Frentis watched as Weaver freed the captured Varitai. They had rested for the night on a rise ten miles north of the old woman’s villa, the Varitai, now numbering some thirty individuals, establishing their own camp at a short remove from the main body. They remained a mostly silent group, uniform in the expressions of wonder and curiosity with which they regarded the world, and rarely venturing far from Weaver, reminding Frentis of new-born fawns clustering around a parent.
The three captives sat in the centre of their group, stripped to the waist and impassive as Weaver crouched at their side, flask in hand. He dipped a thin reed into the flask and touched the tip to their scars, each time provoking a jerking spasm of instant agony and a shrill scream that never seemed to lose its lacerating chill no matter how many times Frentis heard it. The surrounding Varitai came closer as the screams faded, the captives now huddled at Weaver’s feet. He bent to touch each in turn, resting his hand on their heads until they blinked and awoke to their new lives, each face a mask of confusion.
“Is he a priest?”
Frentis turned to find Lemera standing nearby, regarding the Varitai with a bemused expression. “No, a healer,” Frentis replied in his halting Alpiran. “Owns . . . great magic-power.”
“You butcher my language,” she said, slipping into Volarian with a laugh. “Did you learn it in my country?”
He turned back to the Varitai, wincing at best-forgotten memories. “I have travelled far.”
“I was only eight when they took me, but memories of home are still bright. A village on the southern shore, the ocean was rich with fish and blue as a sapphire.”
“You’ll return one day.”
She moved to his side, gaze low and sorrowful. “There will be no welcome for me there . . . ruined as I am. No man will make offer for me and the women will shun me for my despoilment.”
“Your people have harsh customs it seems.”
“My people no longer.” She nodded at the Varitai now helping their freed brothers to stand, a few voicing soft words of comfort and reassurance. “These are my people now, and the others. You are the King of a new nation.”
“I have one already, and my queen is unlikely to tolerate another crown in her Realm.”
“The sister says you are the greatest hero in your land. Do you not deserve lands of your own?”
“Sister Illian tends to exaggerate, and servants of the Faith are denied ownership of property.”
