Prince of Ravens

Jack ground his teeth in frustration, but he didn’t dare to press her any more. “I am, quite literally, my lady’s servant,” he replied with a bow. He nodded to Jezzryd and Jaeren, and allowed the guards to lead him back to the pastures.

CHAPTER THREE

For a day or so after his second interview with Dresimil Chumavh, Jack managed to remain at least a little clean, warm, and dry. But soon enough the toil in the fields took its toll, and he found himself besmeared by the stinking mushroom fodder and rothe patties again. The situation was completely intolerable; he had to escape from the misery of thralldom in the dark elves’ realm, or he would lose his mind altogether. There was nothing else for it-if he wanted to take himself out of cruel toil and brutal drudgery (and rescue Seila, too, if it could be managed) he would have to work out some way to use magic.

Huddled under whatever threadbare blanket he could find to cover himself when he slept, he whispered the words to each spell he knew and groped for the dormant strands of magic in his surroundings. Again and again he built the symbols for the dimension-step spell, the spell of disguise, the spell of invisibility, or even the simple spell of moving things at a distance. No matter how carefully he worked, the enchantments failed each and every time. Magic had always come naturally to him, as simple as learning to add two and two or think up a bawdy rhyme, but the same actions and confidence that had always worked for him before simply yielded no result. He was certain that he was performing the spells correctly, and still nothing happened.

The mystery of it distracted him constantly. “It makes no sense,” he grumbled as he drove rothe from one paddock to another, instinctively avoiding the vicious brutes’ stamping hooves and goring horns. He clearly recalled the exact process by which he worked magic before waking in the gloomy world of the dark elves; he moved his hands like so, and said words such as these, and shaped his mind around this symbol or that analogy … but now those familiar actions meant nothing. Either he had lost whatever mystic sinew he once possessed that enabled him to shape magic or the nature of magic itself had somehow changed. Dresimil had mentioned something called the Spellplague. Could he have caught some sort of arcane contagion while entombed in the mythal?

Unfortunately, Jack could hardly ask his fellow field slaves about the arcane repercussions of the Spellplague. Most were illiterate or belonged to uncouth kindred such as goblin or orc, who could not be expected to know anything of wizardly troubles even if they weren’t inclined to beat or murder Jack on general principle. The drow were probably much better informed, but Jack had learned that it was never a wise idea to attract a dark elf’s attention for any reason at all. No, if the problem had a solution, he would have to work it out for himself.

In the fields he paused in his work, gathering his full force of will and demanding magic to answer his call, only to sense dimly the elusive energies slipping beyond his grasp. When that didn’t work, he tried to frame his spellcasting as a sing-song in his mind, hoping that rhyme or rhythm might spark some unsuspected connection. Other slaves sometimes stared at him or avoided him altogether, but Jack was hardly the only field-slave who talked to himself or gave an appearance of slowly going mad.

Finally, in frustration, he tried emptying his mind of thought and desire, opening himself to any mystic impressions that might come to him … and fell asleep before sensing anything he could grasp for weaving a spell. Work in the rothe pastures was nothing if not fatiguing. He didn’t awaken until Malmor found him and roused him with a vicious kick.

“Ah, ha!” the bugbear cried. “Shirking shirker! To the paddocks with you, human rat, the paddocks! The rothe must be fed! Work!” He flung a shovel at Jack and moved off.

Jack climbed groggily to his feet. “Shirk, work,” he muttered. “When I regain my magic, you will rue every outrage and indignity you have heaped upon me, Malmor.” The bugbear was already out of earshot, which was probably fortunate for Jack. He picked up the shovel at his feet, and stumbled off for another day-or night? — of toil.

Time passed in gray misery, each day blending into the last until Jack no longer knew how long he’d been a prisoner of the drow. Two times he made the weary trudge up to the castle kitchens with the creaking oxcart and failed to catch sight of Seila, but the third time Jack found her tending the cauldron of mushroom-flour porridge that served as the field-slaves’ provender. He breathed a small sigh of relief to see that no harm had befallen her. His future fortune likely depended on bringing her back to the Norwoods safe and whole, after all, and he was rather fond of her, too. He hurried over to the cauldron with an armful of pails to fill.

Bedraggled and exhausted as she was, Seila found a small smile for him. “Hello, Jack,” she whispered. “Kitchen duty again? Malmor must have it in for you.”

“Simply my luck,” he replied under his breath. “I do not mind, though. Fetching supper provides me with an excuse to see how you are getting on.”

“As well as I can in this awful place, I suppose,” she answered. She ladled the thin porridge into the workers’ pails as Jack loaded them onto the cart. Her sleeve slipped up her arm as she poured out the gruel; ugly red welts and purple bruises marked her forearms. Jack realized that she was working with unusual care, her body tense and stiff.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“I tried to slip out of the castle,” she answered. “The dark elves caught me before I’d gone a hundred yards. They had Grelda beaten for losing sight of me, and then gave me back to her … I fought back, but it only made her angrier. I thought she meant to kill me.”

“Brave girl,” Jack said with admiration. “I doubt that she would murder you outright, though. The drow see some value in keeping a Norwood captive. They wouldn’t be so careless with their property.”

Seila grimaced. “Death seems a kinder fate than this.”

“There is still hope. Your family must certainly be looking for you.”

“If they even know I am alive. Fetterfist and his gang killed or carried off everyone in the caravan. There was no one left to tell the tale.” Seila scowled at the vat of porridge. “If we ever get out of this, I’ll have my father put a price on his head that he’ll never outrun, not if he flees to the very ends of the world. That … pig has much to answer for. And I’ll tell you something more: Fetterfist knew exactly where to find my caravan and how strong our escort would be. How did he know those things? Did he know I would be there, too?”

“I’ll be delighted to put those questions to the slaver when the time comes,” Jack promised. The fact that someone would be looking for Seila was an interesting angle he had not considered before; if he failed to find the opportunity for escape, her family’s agents might come to her rescue and provide him with a chance to accompany her to freedom. And of course it was equally interesting that Seila’s father had the means to set enormous prices on villains’ heads, since in the right circumstances those same funds might also make for a handsome reward, indeed. Once again Jack promised himself to mount an escape at the first opportunity. “For now, be patient, endure as best you can. I will think of something.”

“I hope it is sooner-” Seila abruptly stopped herself as Grelda the overseer approached. The porridge-pails were all filled, and despite Jack’s brave show of arranging them carefully on the cart for the trip back to the paddocks, it was clear that their work was done.

The half-orc paused to glare at Seila. “There’s to be no cavorting with the field-slaves,” she snarled. Then she fixed her piggish eye on Jack. “And you, my handsome fellow, can go back to your rothe. Don’t let me catch you sniffing around my kitchens again.” Her hand dropped to the grip of the stinging-rod at her hip, and Jack quickly retreated. It would be bad enough if the kitchen overseer beat him, but the last thing he wanted to do was give her an excuse to flog Seila on his account. Discretion in this case was the better part of valor.

He caught Seila’s eye one last time as he pushed the cart out of the kitchen, and gave her a quick wink before setting out back down the path to the paddocks.

After the encounter with Grelda, Jack decided to avoid the porridge detail for a day or two, for Seila’s safety and his own. He went back to the fields, dragging sledges full of the rothe fodder out to each of the paddocks, then shoveling the inevitable product onto other sledges that were then dragged back out to the fields where the fungus was cultivated. Working in the dark elves’ pastures was an ironically circular labor, when he reflected on it. He