Chapter 1

He had his staff, knife, water skin, and cloak. What more could a man need?

Birds twittered in the trees along the river, and from time to time he heard the splash of leaping fish. Graen beat down, and Paskal pulled his hood up to protect against the harsh light. He’d been traveling since the first watch, and from Handi’s position in the sky, it must be coming up on the second—the moon had slid far to the south, barely visible with Graen’s rays competing against it. He took a sip of his water, feeling satisfied with himself. Two more moonsteps along the Bonn River, and then he’d turn back. By then, having survived on his own for six moonsteps without any help from the clan, his father would have to acknowledge that he was no longer a child. All the condescension and disrespectful dictatorship he suffered under his father would come to an end, and he’d finally receive the respect a member of the clan deserved.

As he walked, he spied a tall boulder that cast a long patch of shade, and the river was close by wafting its cooler air up along the bank—the perfect place to rest and take a meal.

The bread was stale, but that was expected—Graen’s heat sucked the moisture from everything. The jerky revived him, though, and the dried fruit was a nice sweetness at the end. He thought about trying his hand at fishing, but a nap sounded better—he could always string up a line when he was rested. He leaned back with his arms cushioning his head and pulled the generous hood over his face to block out Graen’s perpetual light before closing his eyes. It was so nice to relax without anyone telling him what to do. He could practically see Uncle Theodor scolding Elias for gathering sand too coarse for the glass furnace. At least this moonstep it wasn’t Paskal, who had to sift through the sand that hoarded Graen’s heat like an oven. A satisfied smile worked its way across his face, and the lightness of mood with the tiredness of his body soon lulled him into a deep sleep.

He wasn’t sure how much time slid by, but when he awoke, it was with a start. What was different? He couldn’t tell. The water was still rushing by; he still lay in the shade… Disoriented, he turned over—or tried to. Something held him in place.

“Easy, no need to ruin a perfectly good cloak.” The deep voice startled Paskal.

He wanted to shift the hood out of his face, but when he tried to reach for it, he found that his arms were bound to his sides.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Doesn’t matter much to you now, but your new owner is Olichario.” The male voice held a chuckle but ended with cold, hard as steel. The man leaned closer. “If I help you up, are you going to be stupid and try to fight?”

Fight. Paskal had a knife hanging from his belt, but what good would that do if he couldn’t move? He needed the help this man would provide.

“I’ll not fight you.”

“Good, you might learn quickly.”

Without warning, strong arms yanked him upright. “Not going to pass out on me, are you?”

Paskal wasn’t sure. He was lightheaded, but it soon dissipated; he shook his head.

“Let’s get you with the rest of them.”

The man flicked Paskal’s hood back, making him blink in the brighter light. From a dark face, grinning white teeth glared; one in the front was crooked. The man spat on the ground, leaving a brown spot. The earthy-sweet scent of tabak juice accosted Paskal’s nose.

With a grunt, the man unhooked Paskal’s cloak clasp; for a moment, Paskal felt whatever was binding his arms to his sides release, but it just as quickly reasserted itself as the man flipped the cloak over his own shoulder, leaving Paskal exposed to Graen’s light.

“Good quality cloth, this—good fortune for me, eh? Now, get moving, boy.”

“I’m not a boy!” Paskal wheeled on his captor, only to be met with a slap that made him stumble, his teeth clicking as the man’s ring scraped across his cheek—a burning welt trailing behind the sting. As he wiped it off on his trousers and examined it, as if checking for damage, Paskal saw the glow of a deep red gem set in the metal.

“Defy me again, and you’ll experience my true power.” The man’s face pulsed with ruddy light.

Paskal blinked. Was he seeing things? No; there was a definite glow emanating from his captor’s skin, most noticeable at the wrists and temples, where the blood flowed close to the surface. Magic in the blood…! He’d heard of the jiddee’adar, those who could manipulate the elements, but he’d never met one. Why now of all times?

“I see you recognize this.” There was a taunt in his tone as he swept his arm toward Paskal again, smirking when he flinched away from the burning heat of it “Now, get going, boy.”

Indignance roiling in his chest, Paskal bit his tongue. What else could he do? He moved his feet; at least he could walk. His abductor gripped Paskal’s arm with as much force as the glass vise, and with almost as much heat as the furnace.

They rounded the boulder, and Paskal stared. There was a pair of oxen hitched to a wagon, but it was what was inside it that caused Paskal to shudder. Men and women sat crammed into the bed, their heads down. Olechario hustled Paskal toward them. Paskal blanched. He’d heard of slavers, but the clan had never had dealings with them—never had the need for slaves, even if Paskal and his friends assumed that that was only because their parents already had children to fill the role.

“Up you go, boy.” Olechario hefted Paskal into the air.

Paskal blinked at the heat that swelled around his feet as they left the ground. The slaver gave him a shove, and Paskal fell onto a patch of bare boards in the wagon. Whether the others had scooted over or Olechario had forced a space open, Paskal didn’t know, but he struggled up to sitting as best he could, which wasn’t well with his arms strapped to his sides. No one looked at him. With deft movements, Olechario trussed Paskal’s ankles together.

“Put your head down and relax. You’ll be working hard soon enough.”

Olechario climbed onto the driver’s seat and dropped Paskal’s pack and knife onto the floor at his feet. The slaver picked up the whip, and the oxen started off.

For the first time since waking up, Paskal had the space to contemplate what had just happened. Captured, taken only Jeeah knew where… would his father be able to rescue him?

No… He’d told his father he intended to go—and had been met with the expected disgruntled belittling, but only Elias knew where and how long he planned to be gone, and he’d sworn his cousin to secrecy. It’d be a phase before Elias knew he was overdue and alerted someone. By then, he could be halfway across Eelarga. They’d never find him.

Meanwhile he’d be sold like cattle, worked until he dropped, probably—no home, no family, no friends There was no hope. He hung his head, fighting the despair rooting in his chest. Uncle Theodor, his father… they’d been right. He was still a boy—a slave boy now.

Chapter 2

Graen beat down on Paskal, and sweat stung his eyes. He hadn’t imagined they would travel for so many spans without a rest—or water. He was parched from the heat and dust that he couldn’t help breathing.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Paskal rasped to the man beside him.

There was no reply, other than a pair of empty green eyes slitted behind straw-colored hair.

Shrugging, Paskal raised his voice and asked the blond girl across from him. She didn’t even lift her head from her knees.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” the man beside him hissed. “Shut your mouth!”

Olechario couldn’t hear over the rumble of the wagon wheels, could he?

The spans passed, each one taking him farther and farther from the comforting shores of the Bonn—from his home. Despite the choking grit kicked up by the wheels, the constant rocking of the wagon eventually lulled him to sleep. When he woke, he desperately needed to relieve himself, but from the acrid stench he inhaled, he guessed that no one else had been allowed that privilege. His throat burned with thirst.

A rope bound his feet together, and another held his arms at his sides. Each of his fellow captives was secured in the same way. His arms itched where the hemp fibers dug into them. He wiggled trying to reposition, to somehow scratch it.

The slave beside him gave a warning shake of his head. Slave. He’d been taken captive—by a jiddee’adar slaver. Weren’t the jiddee’adar supposed to be Jeeah’s protectors—advisors to kings or chieftains, using their abilities to serve? He shook his head. He’d seen how Olechario used his power.

At last, long after Paskal’s bladder had betrayed him—long enough that his trousers had had time to dry—Olechario pulled the wagon over into the shadow of some cliffs. Paskal’s stomach rumbled. Were they going to be able to get out? Olechario hopped down from the wagon and pulled out a water skin. He guzzled from it, taunting Paskal’s insatiably dry mouth.  He’d never been this thirsty in all his eighteen synods. Olechario squeezed the final drops from the water skin and tossed it into the front of the wagon. With a lazy glance at his cargo, he grabbed a bundle from under the bench and set up camp. Soon a fire crackled and the smell of cooking meat wafted toward the wagon.

Paskal longed to eat a bite of whatever was roasting. He stretched to see better. The slave beside him shifted ever so slightly—whether in warning or to distance himself from Paskal, he didn’t know, but he also didn’t care. He was stiff, sore, tired, and hungry. He needed to move!

“I wouldn’t if I were you, boy.” Olechario didn’t even look up from adjusting the meat on the spit. “The others have learned: you stay still until you’re needed. Some learned the hard way, others from their friends and companions. Which will it be for you?”

Sit still until needed? His legs were asleep, and with his arms bound, all he could move was his head. He glanced around, but none of the others in the back of the wagon had even looked up when they rumbled out of Graen’s glare. They all had their heads resting on their knees.

Paskal’s bladder again called to be relieved. “What about basic necessities?”

Olechario laughed. “If it doesn’t save me time or raise your selling price, it doesn’t matter.”

“But—”

The girl across from Paskal met his gaze for the first time and shook her head. The slightest sound escaped her; if he hadn’t been so intent on her, he wouldn’t have heard the words—touched with a distinctive, exotic accent—“do not.” Her eyes—blue as the Bonn on a clear day—pleaded with him. If Paskal could’ve read them, he’d gladly have complied, but he could only gaze back in confusion. That seemed to be enough, for she put her head back down, but not before Paskal caught the glint of a tear.

The fire popped, startling someone down the line. Paskal watched Olechario, determined not to be intimidated by the slaver. He didn’t look away until his neck stiffened, but the slaver seemed to take no notice of him. Paskal squirmed as his stomach craped with the need to empty. They had to be allowed time to take care of things. And what about food?

Olechario lifted the bird from the fire, waiting for it to cool before he dissected it and popped segments into his mouth. He tossed the bones into the fire and licked his fingers clean. Once nothing was left, he stood and stretched, meandering to the front of the wagon.

“Let’s see, what you get for your final meal of the step.” The slaver pulled out Paskal’s bag, but no one else even bothered to look up. “Jerky. That’ll do.”

He removed the dried meat that had been meant to supplement Paskal’s meals for the next two moonsteps and tore it into tiny pieces. Then with a flourish he waved the meat. “Your meal is served.”

The other seventeen heads popped up and looked at Olechario like birds in a nest. It was the most life Paskal had seen from them. Olechario started across from Paskal, making eye contact and grinning as he dropped one slice into the girl’s open mouth. The slaver went down the line away from Paskal, carelessly dropping meat into each mouth—or near it. One captive missed the proffered food and groaned piteously; Olechario laughed and moved on.

By the time Olechario had circled the wagon and made his way to Paskal, Paskal’s stomach was grumbling loud enough to be heard by the two slaves at the furthest end of the wagon. He could taste the jerky—almost feel the energy it’d give him. With no hands available to reach for the food, though, he was reduced to lifting his head with his mouth open to receive the offering. He clenched his eyes shut at the humiliation, but nothing dropped into his waiting mouth.

Paskal opened his eyes to see coal-black irises looking back. With the crimson haze at Olechario’s temples, Paskal was reminded of the fire in his uncle’s workshop—and the man was just as inhospitable.

“Sorry, not enough for you.”

“But…”

Olechario held up his empty hands, the ruddy hue enveloping them as well, as if in warning. “You already had a meal this step—probably two. So you can go without. We have a long way to go through the desert; I can’t have my wagon weighted down. Keeping the cargo underweight helps the wagon get through the sand and dust.”

“Water?” Paskal pleaded, foregoing any dignity. He had to have water.

“I’m not heartless. Of course you’ll get water.” But the gleeful smile that accompanied the words didn’t sit well with Paskal.

The slaver pulled a bucket from under the wagon and walked to the stream that trickled alongside the cliff. When he returned, water sparkled in the light as it dripped to the dusty ground. Olechario dumped the contents over four people. They all sucked in as much as they could, gasping and choking. By the time Olechario had made his fifth trip to the stream, Paskal wasn’t looking forward to his drink, but that didn’t stop him from tipping his head upward to receive it.

The cold was such a shock to Paskal’s system that he gasped, inhaling water and sparking an immediate coughing fit. Anything he might’ve been able to swallow was lost, hacking the fluid out of his lungs.

Olechario didn’t even bother to comment as he made his way to his bedroll and curled up leaving Paskal to stare up at the blue sky. Everyone else turned their heads back down to their knees to try to sleep.

What is this? How can they just accept their fate? It’s disgraceful. We’re people, not animals to be left to rot.

A snore broke the quiet; no one stirred in the wagon. Paskal shuddered. He clenched his fists. If only he could get his hands on the slaver.

***

He must have fallen asleep. A jolt of the wagon bed brought him to a groggy consciousness. He’d much rather have been back in his dream that he was at home.

“Come on, get out!” Olechario pulled Paskal out of the wagon, leaving him to fall on his face.

Someone else landed next to Paskal, and he realized if he didn’t want to be at the bottom of the stack of eighteen people, he’d better move. His only option was to roll away which was awkward but brought stinging, burning blood flow to his legs.

Olechario loomed over him. “I’ll only say it once, so listen carefully. Every step as we break camp, I’ll free you to move around a bit; don’t want to drive your price down by letting you get weak and lose all your muscle along the way. If you take care of what you called ‘basic necessities’ while you’re at it, I don’t care, but you’ll be back here in a quarter of a span. If you’re not, I’ll find you, and you’ll wish you’d stuck your hand in the firepit rather than defying me.”

Paskal swallowed. The ruddy aura around Olechario’s temples and wrists added weight to the jiddee’adar’s threat. Paskal nodded, biting back the storm of angry words that formed on his tongue. He’d bide his time. There’d have to be an opportunity to escape later.

With a few deft movements, Olechario unbound Paskal, and soon the rest of the slaves were sitting up and swinging their arms awkwardly until they had use of them. Then they stood and hurried away—the five women to one side and men to the other.

Paskal stretched, relishing the feel of freedom, no matter how minor, and stumbled after the last man, who’d slipped around a bush. No one spoke as they did what needed to be done. Paskal’s trousers reeked. What good was one quarter span of free time? Then Paskal noted the stream. He rushed to it and plunged in, gulping down water and then reveling in the feel of the road’s dust washing away. He scrubbed at his face, lingering as long as he dared and drinking as much as he could tolerate. Who knew when he would get more?

As he climbed out, wringing water from his tunic, a searing pain shot through his shoulder and down his arm with a hiss of steam. Shrieking, he clutched his arm to his chest, but it didn’t relieve anything. Trying not to cry, he ran back the way he’d come. The others were climbing into the wagon bed. The burning didn’t stop until he was in line behind the blond girl who sat across from him.

The line was slow-moving as each person stopped for Olechario to inspect them before they shambled into place. The girl paused, her head down. Olechario leered at her and seemed to take his time as he bound her wrists, heaved her up into place, and then secured her ankles.

When he was done, he grinned at Paskal, the expression full of sick anticipation. “I gave you a warning. Next time, you might not keep the limb.”