"Your turn, boy."
A hand reached through the metal bars of the cage and smacked the boy on the back of the head. The boy startled awake, chains rattling as he shifted. Wide green eyes stared up at the hulky figure of the guard.
The screech of hinges made the boy cringe as the cage door was opened. The boy was hauled out of the cage and a leather lead was clipped to his collar.
"Come on."
The guard gave the leash a sharp tug and started walking, striding along down the dirt floor of the stable.
They passed cage after cage, most containing two or three young men or women. Some of them spat curses at the guard. Some of them begged for food or water. Some of them stared with empty, hopeless eyes. Some of them cried.
The boy being towed along by the guard said nothing. He was naked, his skin unwashed and filthy. His feet were bare and bruised from long hours of walking across rough terrain. His long red hair was hopelessly tangled. Inky black marks lined his back and arms.
It was these marks that bound him, more so than the collar around his neck. More so than the manacles around his slim wrists. It was these marks that kept him silent.
Bright sunlight assaulted the boy's eyes as they stepped out of the stable and into the yard. A small wooden stage had been set up nearby and it was to this that the boy was led.
The boy waited beside the guard as a malnourished girl was pushed stumbling off the stage and taken back into the stable. It seemed that she had not received any bids, the boy thought. Whether she was fortunate or not, he wasn't sure. He didn't know what happened to the slaves who weren't sold.
Then it was the boy's turn.
"Up you get, boy."
The guard's voice was as firm as his hands as he pushed the boy up the three small steps onto the stage. His leash was attached to a ring on the pole in the centre of the stage.
The small crowd of prospective buyers were given the chance to study the boy as the auctioneer listed his attributes, as if he were a horse for sale.
"This one is quite tame," he said. He took hold of the boy's arm and wrenched him around, exposing the boy's back to the audience. "Been inked with permanent wards. Quite an expensive process, usually."
The auctioneer smiled toothily at the crowd. He was right. The process of warding a slave was insanely expensive. Only the desert mages of the western land of Tourin had ever mastered the technique and they guarded that knowledge with the ferocity of a dragon guarding it's treasure. It was certainly a treasure. The mages had made a fortune off the technique. This slave would fetch a high price, for the wardings alone, if nothing else.
"Tame and quiet," the auctioneer continued, turning the boy back around. "And pretty as a girl."
Some of the audience chuckled at that. Despite the slave's long hair and delicate features, he certainly was not a girl. The proof hung flaccid between his legs, shamefully visible to everyone. With his hands shackled behind his back, he could not shield himself from the onlookers.
Pretty, he was though. His eyes were as green as the queen's emeralds and his hair was as red as cherries. Even with how dirty it was, the colour showed through. His features were pleasingly symmetrical and as fine as a highborn lady's.
His bearing also resembled that of a highborn. His back was straight even though his eyes were lowered to the stained wooden planks beneath his feet.
Another thing that was unusual about him, and something the auctioneer couldn't resist also mentioning, was the lack of scars marring his skin. Other than the wardings, his skin was clean of blemish beneath the dirt. Most slaves were children of poor families who had either been sold by their starving parents, or caught stealing. Few were as well cared for as this boy had been, up until very recently.
The auctioneer smirked as the bidding climbed higher and higher. 1,000, 1,500, 2,500… And it just kept going up.
Finally, a portly man in a richly coloured fine coat stepped forward. "50,000," he said loudly.
The auctioneer stuttered in shock. This was the first time in his experience that a slave had ever been sold for that much. The people in the crowd stared and muttered at the new bidder.
"50,000 hōseki," the man repeated, after getting no intelligible response from the auctioneer.
"Ah, ah, yes…" the auctioneer said, at a loss for words.
The man gave him a withering look over his sharp nose. "Well?" he asked snippily.
"S-sold!" the auctioneer said weakly. He sounded as if he were choking on the word.
The boy still said nothing. His eyes remained locked on his feet even as his leash was unclipped from the pole and handed back to the guard.
Bare, dirty and bound, he walked obediently behind the guard. Not a soul in that yard guessed at the thoughts that were running through his head, hidden behind an emerald gaze.
Not a soul guessed at where that proud bearing came from. Or who had graced him with such fine features.
There was a word on his lips. A word held back by the wardings cruelly etched into his skin. A word caught in those black lines.
That word was a name. A name he whispered silently in the darkness, only when he was alone, lips mouthing the word over and over again like a sacred mantra. A name that he vowed never to forget.
Because it was his name. He'd lost everything. He'd lost his family. His home. His future.
Those had been taken from him. And they had tried to take his name as well. But the boy refused to relinquish it. They could stop him from speaking it. They could stop him from writing it. But they could not stop him from thinking it.
The boy was taken to a room he had never seen before. Metal rings lined the walls in a row. A dozen slaves were already there, their leashes clipped to the rings. The boy's leash was clipped to the ring nearest to the wall. He sat on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them.
Soon he would be claimed by his new owner and introduced to his new role in life. Whatever that would be.
The wards burned his back and arms, a constant, irritating presence. Never quite able to be ignored or forgotten. Every time he tried to speak, the words were shoved back down his throat, making him choke. Every time he tried to write, his hand would spasm uncontrollably, causing his usually neat letters to look like a child's unintelligible scrawl. Looking at that, no one would ever guess that he was actually very well educated.
The number of slaves in the room dwindled slowly as their new owners claimed them. The boy did not stir. He remained in the same position until his turn finally came.
A shiny black boot nudged his foot.
"Up, boy."
The voice was curt. The boy raised his head to see the man from the yard staring down his sharp nose at him.
He rose slowly to his feet, shaky as a newborn foal. The man unclipped the leash from the ring and clipped it to his belt. He also removed the manacles binding the boy's thin wrists. The boy rubbed the bruised skin with relief. It was a small kindness but he was grateful. Any kindness at all was as rare as water in the Tourin desert.
"Come along, then," the man said.
The boy followed him out of the room. His gaze passed over the other people there without really seeing them. He hoped that he would never see any of them ever again.
The carriage the boy was led to clearly belonged to someone of consequence. The exterior was solid black and a crest was painted on the door. The boy thought it looked vaguely familiar but he couldn't immediately place it. It was a red dragon with blue eyes. He thought that perhaps he might have seen it during one of his childhood lessons. It wasn't the crest of the royal family, he was sure, but it had to belong to a high-ranked noble house. The two horses harnessed to the carriage were obviously of very fine breeding, with long legs and well-defined physique. Both were grey in colour, a perfectly matched pair.
The boy's leash was passed to a new man, who had been standing beside the carriage and speaking with the man holding the reins of the horses.
"Well, what do we have here?" he asked, studying the boy closely. "Didn't think you'd find anything, Seb."
This man's clothes were much plainer than Seb's, meant for ease of movement rather than aesthetic appeal. The same crest that the carriage bore was emblazoned on the man's breast. The boy guessed that he was probably a guard.
The man who'd purchased the boy, who must have been Seb, replied, "Every now and then you find a gem amongst the pebbles."
"Let's hope he keeps our little dragon happy and out of trouble," the new man said.
"He'd better," Seb laughed. "He cost a good deal more than a handful of gems." Seb gave the boy's hair a pat, then winced and rubbed his hand on his coat. "Needs a good scrubbing, though," he added.
Seb alighted into the carriage and the man led the boy along, walking alongside the carriage as it ambled through the crowded streets. It was easy to keep up as the passage of the carriage was slow, due to the volume of vehicles and people on the streets.
The man did not speak to the boy, though he occasionally called out to the driver. Every now and then the sharp sound of the whip striking the flank of one of the horses made the boy cringe. He wondered if soon he would be feeling that whip crack over his own back.
The houses grew further and further apart as they continued to wherever they were going. The streets grew wider and the gardens became less functional and more ornamental. The buildings were now made of solid stone, not wood. The clothes of the people passing them were far finer than those seen in the area of town that hosted the slave auctions.
The boy was acutely aware now of his state of undress and uncleanliness, but he kept his back straight, despite the prickling of the wards that would only allow him so much dignity. He would not show weakness or cowardice.
People gave them a wide berth, staring wide-eyed at the boy. None of them said anything to him, however, or his guard, who seemed oblivious to the stares. He kept walking, his pace steady.
The castle gates came into view. They were tall and iron, with sharp spikes topping each bar. The carriage did not reach them however. It turned left, up a paved way flanked by neatly-trimmed hedges.
Another turn and they were before a large house made of white stone. The carriage halted before it. The door opened and Seb stepped out. He fussed with his waistcoat as he approached the boy and his guard. He took the leash from the guard.
"Almost home, boy," he said. "You can rest those feet soon."
The boy was startled by the man's words. No one had ever mentioned his feet before or showed any kind of acknowledgement at his discomfort. His feet were certainly sore, but he had learned to ignore the pain.
They did not approach the large wooden doors of the house. Instead, they went around the house and to a smaller, more modest side-door. It opened to a dim interior. Carpet of a rich maroon colour lined the floor. The walls were wooden paneling, finished so they gleamed.
"Seb!"
A joyful cry bounced off the walls as a small figure hurtled at the man leading the boy. The man was caught in a tight embrace.
"Asha! What are you doing?" The man's tone was scolding. A muffled giggle was his answer.
Then, the figure pulled away. The boy saw that the figure was a girl with shoulder-length dark hair and sparkling green eyes. She wore a plain cream dress and her hair was pulled back with a scarf.
"Oh, you finally found one," she exclaimed, staring at the boy.
"Yes. And he needs to be cleaned," Seb said, sounding grumpy. "For the love of the gods, take him and bath him."
The girl took hold of the offered leash with a cheerful grin. "We'll make him pretty for the dragon," she said happily. "He's been in such a foul temper all day, since the lady left. This ought to cheer him up."
"We'll see," Seb muttered.
He stalked away down the hall without a backwards glance. The girl gave a light tug on the leash.
"I bet you can't wait to get clean," she said. "It's disgusting, the way those slavers treat you. Not even letting you wash yourself. Even our horses are treated better. What's your name?"
The boy remained silent, his eyes hooded. Receiving no response, the girl halted and turned towards him.
"What's your name?" she repeated, frowning. "You must have one, right? Even slaves have names."
The boy's eyes dropped to his dirty feet. He was unable to give her the answer she wanted, and unable to explain why.
A sharp slap jerked his head to the side. His cheek stung fiercely, red blooming over it.
"Answer me!" the girl snapped, her eyes flashing irately.
Still, he said nothing, keeping his eyes lowered, even as tears threatened to fall. The girl probably thought that he was being deliberately ignorant in refusing to answer her question. Nothing was further from the truth. He wanted to tell her his name. He wanted to climb up to the rooftop and scream it to the wind. But it would not carry on even a whisper.
"Asha, what are you yelling for?"
Another girl stood at the end of the hall, her arms crossed over her chest. She wore the same dress as Asha, though without a scarf. She was taller than Asha, with long brown hair and a stern air.
"I just want to know his name," Asha snapped. "But he won't answer." She glared at the boy, as if everything were his fault.
The new girl approached them. She studied the boy for a moment, before taking hold of his wrist. Her touch was gentle as she traced one of the warding marks with one blunt nail.
"He can't answer you," she said. "He's mute, you stupid fool."
Asha's glare intensified. "Don't call me stupid," she snapped. "How was I supposed to know? I'm not a mage." Under the angry flush, the boy thought he saw a hint of stung pride and chagrin.
"I'm not a mage either, but you don't have to be one to recognise the marks."
The girl cast her gaze over the boy again. "He's filthy," she said, wrinkling her nose as she wiped her hand on her dress.
"Seb said to bath him," Asha said sulkily. All her earlier cheer was gone.
"Oh, Seb…" the newcomer said knowingly.
Asha's posture stiffened in indignation. If she were a cat, her fur would have been bristling.
"S-shut up," she said, her cheeks reddening further with anger and embarrassment.
"He's too old for you, you know," the girl stated.
"No, he's not. You don't know anything," Asha returned with a certain air.
"Right," the girl said dryly. "I'm only engaged and all that. What would I know?"
"Well, your man is nothing to skite about," Asha grumbled. "He spends all his spare time in the slums, drinking and cheating drunks out of their money."
"At least I have a man," the girl snapped, her temper fraying like a worn rope.
The boy stood in the hall, listening to the girls argue with the resigned, patient air of a nursemaid who'd given up on trying to control her unruly young charges and was just waiting for them to exhaust themselves. He wondered how long this would carry on before it drew the attention of the other occupants of the house.
Not long, apparently.
"What is going on here?"
The voice was masculine and surly, cutting beneath the girls' bickering with blunt precision. Both girls froze and turned white.
"Ah, we…" Asha took a step back, attempting to put the taller girl between herself and the newcomer, suddenly meek.
This was a young man about the boy's age, with dark hair and an arrogant air. His eyes were cold, hard rubies and his stance firm. He was shorter than the boy by an inch or so and his features were sharp. His face had the smooth, unblemished look of someone who'd never been without good nutrition.
His clothes were of fine quality, but functional. Dark slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt covered him, leaving little of his skin exposed.
"And why is that inside the house?" the newcomer asked icily. He stared at the boy as if he were a mangy dog slobbering over his boots.
"L-lord Hiei, he's…"
Asha seemed lost for words in the face of the man's ruby glare. The other girl took over with a frown.
"Seb brought him back from the slave market," she said. "He's for you. Asha was taking him for a bath."
"Well, hurry up and get it done," Lord Hiei snapped. "And keep quiet. Mother is resting."
"Yes, Lord Hiei."
"And don't hit him again. If he gives you problems then come to me. I'll deal with it."
"Yes, Lord Hiei," the girls chorused once more.
Both girls dipped into shallow bows. But, before they'd even straightened, the man had turned and walked away.
There was no more chatter between the girls. Both were clearly spooked by the unexpected interruption. Asha gave a sharp tug on the boy's leash, making him stumble forward a step.
"Come on," she said sulkily.
The boy followed her down another hall before she led him into a white-tiled room. A large bathtub was situated in the centre of the room, sunken into the floor. The taps were gold-plated and the knobs shaped like seated dragons.
Indoor plumbing was a very expensive commodity, the boy knew. Only the wealthiest of families had it. At least, that had been the case in his own land. He assumed that was the case here as well. This was the first time he'd seen it since he'd come to this country, anyway.
"Get in," Asha said impatiently as she turned off the taps. Misty steam rose from the water, fine droplets settling against his skin.
The boy cautiously put one foot in the water and immediately jerked it back with a gasp. It was too hot.
"Get. In," Asha repeated. One small hand pushed between his shoulder blades insistently.
The boy got in, biting his lip against the burn. Steam rose up around him, obscuring his vision of Asha.
The cloth she used to scrub his skin clean was coarse and wiry. She was as efficient as a housewife scrubbing dishes, giving no thought to his discomfort. By the time she washed the soap from him, his skin was almost as red as his hair and cut in several places.
Asha's fingers tugged cruelly at the knots in his hair. She said some very unladylike things under her breath as she struggled with the matted mass. The entire process of bathing took a very long time. By the time the boy was ordered out of the dirty water, it was cold.
He stood, naked and shivering on the cold, wet tiles as Asha dried him with a fluffy white towel.
"You're so skinny," she muttered. Her eyes moved to the mark that her hand had left on his cheek and then slid away, a frown coming across her features.
The boy noticed that her dress had wet splotches on it and her cheeks were flushed red from the steam.
The boy sat on a stool near the wall as Asha fussed with his hair, drying it thoroughly. Then she brushed it out, smoothing the strands down with care.
"You've got such pretty hair," she said, sounding envious as she ran her fingers through the now tangle-free mass.
The boy kept his head down, giving no indication he'd heard her. Being called 'pretty' was no longer a compliment, to his way of thinking.
Though the boy had to admit that it was nice to have his hair properly washed. He'd always liked it when his mother brushed it for him.
He swallowed a lump in his throat, firmly telling himself that the wetness on his cheeks was from the steam. Just the steam.
The robe she slipped over his shoulders was light and soft, the fabric gliding over his abused skin. The sleeves were too long but he could hardly complain. He was just glad to finally be afforded some modesty.
Asha tied the sash around his waist and stepped back, eyeing her work critically.
"Much better," she said with approval. "Lord Hiei won't have anything to complain about now."
The boy was led through the halls again. This time they went up a set of carpeted stairs. Several turns later, the boy found himself in what had to be a bedroom.
The bed was large and luxurious. The headboard was made of solid wood and carved with the likeness of several creatures from the old stories. The covers looked thick and warm. A large window let in radiant afternoon sunlight. On the wall above the bed hung a sword, it's hilt embedded with small gems that captured the sunlight.
"You stay here," Asha said firmly. "Don't cause any trouble for the little lord, you hear me?"
She attached his leash to one of the handles on the nightstand drawer and pointed at the floor. Her meaning was clear.
The boy knelt on the carpet, the fabric of his robe puddling around him.
"Stay," Asha ordered, as though he were a dog. Maybe she thought he was a dog, because she then patted his head.
"Just do what he tells you, okay?" she said, her voice a little softer. "He's not so bad, really. You're pretty lucky, you know. There are far worse places you could have ended up."
She left the room, feet silent on the thick carpet. The door thudded shut behind her.
Silence fell like a blanket over the room. The boy remained kneeling on the carpet, wondering how long he would have to wait. His skin felt raw and irritated from his bath and he stank of some overly-sweet soap. The collar still around his neck chaffed his tender throat.
And the marks still burned, constant and bitter. The boy wanted to tear into his own back and rip the offending ink from his skin. But it wouldn't do any good. The magic went far deeper than his skin, he knew. The wardings were there for good. Nothing could undo them, not even the desert mage's own magic.
Permanent. Irremovable. Inescapable.
He was a nameless slave destined to be some petty lord's plaything. No one would ever know his history. No one would ever know his name.
No one would ever know that he once outranked everyone in this entire household. That he had held one of the highest ranks in his land.
But no longer. Betrayal had stolen everything from him and reduced him to this, a nameless, worthless slave.
But this would not be his fate as his enemies had intended it to be. He would not settle for that. He would regain his freedom. His home might be beyond his reach. His family might be lost to him. His former life a far-off dream.
But he would find his freedom.