The Magician’s Apprentice

took it she realised that a thin trickle of blood had streaked her palm.

“Any questions?” he asked expectantly.

“Why is the cutting necessary?” she asked as she wiped her hands, pressing against the tiny cuts on each palm. They had already stopped bleeding.

“The skin of humans and animals is a boundary of sorts,” he told her. “Everything within our skin we are in control of. That is why a magician cannot reach into another human’s body and damage it, no matter how powerful he or she is. He can attack it from outside, but not influence anything within.” Dakon moved back to his chair and sat down, and Jayan followed suit. “To gain control, we must break the barrier.”

Tessia considered that information as she moved to her usual seat. “Is the magician taking power always in control? What happens if the person he is trying to control is a higher magician too?”

“The one taking power still has an unbroken barrier,” Dakon pointed out. “Even if he did not, once he begins drawing magic he can also weaken the body. How much depends on the skill and intent of the magician using higher magic. If it is a benevolent exchange, as little as possible. If it is malevolent, the higher magician can paralyse his victim, making it difficult to even think.”

Tessia shuddered. The ritual of higher magic was simple, but it was a tamed version of an act of violence and death. It was akin to asking apprentices to bare their throats to the thrust of a sharpened sword blade by their masters, trusting that the blade would not cut.

But no sword took strength from its victims. No sword, even used gently, could benefit its wielder the way higher magic did. The ritual was also an exchange of power, and of trust and respect. In return apprentices learned to use magic. They gained years of training and knowledge that they would otherwise have to gain from experimentation. They also had food and a home to live in while they learned, as well as nice clothes... and the occasional visit to Imardin to socialise with the powerful and influential. Perhaps even the king.

Suddenly it didn’t seem that Dakon received much in return for his time and energy. Just magic. Unless he had a particular need for that extra magic, it must feel as though the effort and time were not worth it. No wonder that some magicians chose not to take on apprentices.

But as the cuts on Tessia’s palms began to itch faintly, she ruefully acknowledged that there would be times she gave him plenty in return for her training, and made a mental note to herself to get hold of some wound balm before she left.

Under the light of an oil lamp and the half-moon, Hanara and two of the younger stable servants carefully rubbed grease into harness leathers and polished the trim of Lord Dakon’s wagon.

Since he’d accepted Lord Dakon’s offer of work and moved into the stable quarters, Hanara had felt much more comfortable with his surroundings. He felt less at ease with the stable servants, however. They constantly exchanged a teasing banter that no Sachakan master would have approved of. Hanara did not know how to respond to it, so he had decided to pretend that he understood their accent and ways less than he did. Whenever they played their foolish pranks on him he shrugged off the laughter. He’d endured far worse indignities, and his weary acceptance appeared to make them respect him in some strange way.

I was a source slave to an ashaki, he reminded himself. They’ll never understand what that meant – how few slaves gain that status.

One in a thousand might. It was somewhere between being a Kyralian lord’s personal, favourite servant and his apprentice. Except he was still a slave.

Now he was a commoner. But he was free. Surely what he had gained was better than what he had lost.

Like the other stable servants, he received coin each week from Lord Dakon – though it was handed out by Keron, the house master. Hanara hadn’t known what to do with it at first. The women servants from the main house brought out food each morning and night, so he didn’t need to purchase any. Boots and clothing had been given to him the day he’d moved into the stable. They were warmer than his old slave garb, but rough compared to the fine cloth Takado had provided. He slept on a pallet up in the stable loft, thankfully away from the other workers – who seemed to enjoy sleeping close to the horses – so he didn’t need to pay for a roof over his head.

Eventually, by watching the others, Hanara gathered that the stable servants liked to spend their fee on frivolities in the village. The baker made sweets as well as bread. The metal worker’s wife sold preserves, dried foods, scented candles, oils and balms. One of the old men carved scraps of wood into utensils and vessels that would have been better made of metal or pottery, as well as game pieces, bead necklaces and strange little figurines of animals and people.

At first Hanara did not see why he should waste his money on such objects. He watched the other workers compare their purchases when they returned to the stables, and noted whether they kept the item, or gave it as a gift – usually to one of the women of the village.

Slowly he came to realise that buying such items would give him an excuse to explore more of the village, so one day he followed some of the workers out on one of their excursions. They noticed him and insisted he join them. It might be that they accepted and wanted to include him, or they might have wanted to keep an eye on him. He had noticed how he was never left alone, and sometimes caught them watching him.

The villagers were welcoming to the stable servants, but each time they noticed Hanara their smiles became forced. They continued to be friendly, even when he came forward to buy something, but when they turned away he saw their expressions turn to fear, wariness or dislike.

On their return to the stable, he noticed children peering from around the sides of houses, staring at him. Some ran away when he noticed them. It was ironic that they should fear him, who had once been a lowly slave.

The stable servants had also passed a gathering of four young women, who whispered and grimaced with distaste when they noticed Hanara. Two young men who saw this turned to regard Hanara with narrowed eyes as he and his companions went by.

Hanara was not surprised by the villagers’ reaction to him. He was a foreigner. He was from a country that had once conquered their people. A member of a race they feared.

Tessia had told him that if any villagers bothered him, he was to tell her. She had assured him there were laws and rules that would protect him. He smiled as he remembered her visits. She, of all the villagers, did not fear or distrust him. The person who came closest to understanding him did not hate him.

Here, in the stables, it was easy to be amused by the haughtiness of some of the villagers. They weren’t slaves, but they weren’t as free as they thought they were. Most worked hard all the same. They might have their fee and their freedom, but they were bound to the lord they served because he owned the land they cultivated and the houses they lived in. They were subject to his whim as any slave was to his or her master. It just didn’t feel like slavery to them because Lord Dakon was a benevolent and generous man.

He even asked if I would let him read my mind. I think he felt guilty about it, too. How can anyone be that scrupulous? That squeamish? It had been tempting to refuse, to see if Dakon would insist or apologise and leave, but Hanara had wanted the magician to know of the danger. Takado would return for him.

I don’t think he believed it. He looked for evidence. I don’t need evidence. I know Takado. What good is it being given my freedom by a man who can’t protect me because he won’t believe it when I say I’m in danger?

Perhaps he’d have been better off working for another, tougher magician. Or perhaps not. He’d noticed unhappy, fearful servants during Takado’s travels through Kyralia. He’d heard stories and rumours. Kyralian magicians could be cruel, and there was not a lot their servants could do about it.

Not all ashaki are as cruel as Takado, he told himself. Some of them are far worse, of course. But there are stories of ashaki who treat their slaves well.

Takado was a cruel man, but rarely without reason. He did not hurt or kill a slave unless that slave had failed or offended him in some way. The punishment usually fitted the crime. Hanara had never heard of Takado harming a slave for entertainment, though it was not uncommon among other ashaki.

Hanara shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable as a now familiar uneasiness stole over him again, as it had every night since he woke up bandaged head to foot in the Residence.

He could not understand why Takado had beaten him so badly and left him behind, when his mistake had been so small. If Takado is not cruel without reason, then I just haven’t seen the reason yet.

But if Hanara hadn’t earned such a savage punishment, what other reason might Takado have for beating him? Had he been trying to impress Lord Dakon? Had he intended for Hanara to be too badly injured to accompany him