Raith trailed after his master dutifully, but to be honest, was bored out of his mind. He understood that a magister had to do these errands sometimes, but he really didn't like walking. Why did they have to walk anyway? Couldn't the slaves carry a litter? Or a carriage even?

The apprentice slogged along, to all looking unhappy to be out in the sunshine of the day. He would rather be studying, or doing something useful. He reprimanded himself immediately: Of course this was useful. There were certain investments with the ship captains, certain investments with the slave traders, certain bribes to be made, and Raith had to learn them all if he were really going to be a decent apprentice, let alone magister one day.

Still…

Surely this could be done from the sanctity of an office room at the manor, maybe while sipping a cool glass of gin? That would be nice.

And fitting—making the lesser creatures scurry to him to do business. But his master had said that if he didn't physically see these things, at least sometimes, they could lie and cheat him. Don't even trust spies and never trust friends for a magister had none, he had told him—that was how one stayed alive in a world governed by politics and magic. And the backstabbing, assassinations, and duels were just another facet of it, and not even something he should consume too much energy worrying about at that! The political backstabbing was the worst of it.

Frankly, sometimes Raith wondered if it was a life he wanted at all. As a child, it was a dream-come-true. As a teenager, though… Well, he really wanted to go meet a girl or something sometimes, and he was under such strict rules and regulations, had certain protocols to adhere to… He wasn't even allowed to get drunk lest it tarnish his most esteemed master's name. And the one time he had decided to ignore that particular rule, his master had… not been happy, to say the least—and neither had Raith by the end of it.

He had been twelve at the time when he started apprenticing. He hadn't even been at an age where he truly knew what he was doing—just that it meant a better life. Money, power—what more could a man want? Sometimes, he thought ruefully, a man just wants to get drunk at a cheap bar and go to bed with a whore.

Surely, that wasn't such a bad thing?

His master was brilliant, in every meaning of the word, and frequently made him feel inferior, despite their scant difference in age—not even ten years. Part of his master's brilliance, after all, lay in that he was one of the youngest magisters in history, as far back as the Storm Age, due to a series of unfortunate familial events as well as passing all the tests ahead of time, and assumed the title at a mere twenty winters. He, though, had grown up with the idea, been trained for its inevitability, though he could have made it by apprenticing as well—and would have; he was talented. That alone made his mark, even if it were a small scar along the path of history. But he wasn't content for that; he was striving to achieve greatness, something to be remembered for. Raith just wondered if he ever rested. He wondered if his master ever just… well, did anything for the sake of the action, and not a plan. He wondered what he had been like as a child. Just as serious?

Most the business of the day had been attended to, though, so they really should have been leaving back to the manor soon, but were taking a severe detour through the slave market. Danarius was always looking for something new.

He trained slaves to fight in the coliseum, not personally of course—that would be silly—but he had his own team. There was good coin in it, if they won, and it certainly won the crowd's approval when a much-liked champion won, and they had a higher resale value when he inevitably sold them to the army additionally. In short, it kept the commons happy, while getting them to like their magisters as well. Entertainment did that. Raith saw some point in that, but, frankly, disliked the coliseums overall. They were noisy places, outside. Why would anyone want to watch a bunch of half-naked, oiled slaves hack each other's limbs off anyway? Coin, he supposed—but the commons came. They made bets too, though, but they certainly did cheer at the sight of blood.

Blood. Great power came from blood—that was one of his lessons, and why it was important that he remember the point of the coliseums. Blood can not only be used to amplify his own power, but it can be used to control others. Blood could heal grievous wounds and revive failed crops—it was one of the reasons for his country's success. And, not only just through magic. He remembered the roar of the crowds, the way they went wild at the sight of first blood, like there was something truly mystical about it. There wasn't, but that didn't stop them. The coliseums slaked a person's bloodlust too, and it proved a decent way to get rid of criminals.

Raith's lips curled into a tired frown when Danarius had stopped, and was looking at a group of slaves. The merchant was boasting about how they came from Seheron. Raith rolled his eyes. That wasn't a boast—that meant they were half-wild and not to be trusted! Still, they were always useful to throw into the coliseum; it wasn't always about false battles and fighting; sometimes it was just about dying: Bears, tigers, lions, wolves—the slaves were thrown in to them naked, and the crowd would place bets on the outcomes… Which would be eaten first? How long would they last? Would they scream?

He glanced at the "half-wild" wares. Well, they certainly look cowed and subservient, he thought disdainfully. Danarius was looking with some interest at a pregnant woman toward the back of the cage. Elves could be difficult to breed sometimes, even with herbs to help with the process.

"Have her step forward," he commanded. His tone was one that was used to being obeyed—instantly and without question, and woe to the one who was not quick about it. The little merchant scurried around to the side. He used a long cane to prod her in the thigh.

"You—get forward," he snapped. She jumped, and hesitantly stepped closer, head down, and frightened. Two children clung to either of her hands. All elves looked alike to Raith, but neither really looked like her own children to him. The boy (was it a boy? It was so hard to tell at their age!) had a shade of blue-black hair he had never seen before, and sage green eyes, and looked little like the woman. The girl was doe-eyed with what promised to be curly reddish brown hair if it were washed and brushed. The pregnant woman had straight nearly black hair and frightened hazel eyes, more green than brown or blue. He wondered if the two children hadn't simply clung to the first person around them, but by her stance, she seemed protective of the two. Raith noticed that she leaned more in front of the boy though. If either was her real child, it was the boy.

Elven children had all the beauty of the adults, with the natural charm of the young of any species. Pleasant enough to look at or observe, but overall useless really.

Danarius looked down at the boy, who stared up at him blankly, before his eyebrows drew down in, not fright, but a suspicious glare. The man was amused, if nothing else. He looked back at the woman. "Does she have any skills?"

The merchant fumbled, and removed a roster. He ran through it briefly, stuttering a bit as he did so. But Danarius looked back at her. "Do you?" he addressed her instead.

She swallowed, and looked down without saying anything. The merchant jabbed her immediately with the cane, in the back this time. She made a small sound of pain, but otherwise didn't move. "Answer him, bitch!"

She blinked, and continued staring downwards. "I was… a… tailor… serrah. I'm very good at embroidery… and hats," she added, voice so soft that Raith had to strain to hear it. Her poor accent suggested that, while she did speak some Tevene, it was not a tongue she often used, which may have been the reason for her long delay in speaking.

Danarius was looking at the child beside her. "Is he yours?" the magister inquired, switching to the Trade tongue with relative ease.

The boy stared up at him, defiantly, but still was pressed close to his mother's leg. "Yes, serrah," she squeaked. The little girl was all but hiding behind her.

"The girl?"

A pause, then, "No, serrah."

His eyes strayed back to her pregnant belly. Raith judged her to be… five months along, give or take. Considering they were caught in war, he was surprised that she hadn't miscarried. The child would be strong, he assumed, considering all it had been through without even having been born. And for an elf to have two children so close in age… It wasn't unheard of, just unlikely; they reproduced slowly. That had been a problem for slave-owners for generations, though, and a frustration. But it was why there were still plenty of human slaves available. If she were fertile enough for that, it could prove worthwhile.

He looked back at the elf-child with the black hair, who had only continued to glare up at him. Raith wanted nothing more than to smack the child across the face, and teach him some manners, but Danarius… Danarius was just amused as ever that the child would dare.

He turned back to the merchant. "How much—for the pair?" he said, gesturing to the mother and child. The girl held on closer to her surrogate. The boy reached toward the girl, comfortingly. The pregnant woman was shaking, and starting to cry. Pathetic, really—but typical. He wondered what his master could possibly want with a three-year old and a pregnant tailor. He supposed there was always tailoring work to be done, though. And the boy… the boy might be rather pretty when he was older, he supposed. His master owned several brothels—he could put him in one of those; he would probably fetch a decent price too in a few years.

The haggling began, and the woman shivered. The boy looked up at her, and back at the magister. Raith saw the connection being made, but thought nothing of it.

It happened so fast; no one saw it coming. No one knew.

One moment, all was normal. The next…

The boy's arm flashed. Raith caught a glimpse of steel in the sunlight, but at first couldn't make his mind understand it. He thought he must have been seeing things, because it wasn't possible that…

Then there was blood, a gasp of pain.

The boy jumped back, away from the cage bars, stumbling backwards. Danarius cried out in obvious pain, and fell. The small knife was buried to the hilt, deep in his thigh. He could bleed out from that. Raith knelt beside him, magic tingling around his fingers already. He dared not remove the blade yet—it could be the only thing slowing the bleeding. He worked quickly, and he heard men yelling and calling for help around them. There was no need; Raith was fair at healing for his age; apprenticing under a magister for nearly two years and he had learned much.

He sought the core of magic within him, merged himself with it. It wasn't so much like drawing water from a well as releasing a floodgate, a restraint on the magic all mages learned to have. But it wasn't as simple as dumping a bucket of water into a glass to fill it. He had to let it trickle, gently, lest it overflow or lest he spill. His magic raced along the other's body, seeking out the trouble, the ills, the pain. Only when he was confident that the bleeding had been sufficiently halted did his fingers wrap around the hilt of the blade. He gently drew it out, and dropped it beside him, away from the cage. Flesh knitted, muscle wove back together. But one thing had changed—there was a pale, thin scar across the place, for which he felt a pang of unease.

He felt like he wasn't good enough to be his apprentice. A good mage could heal anything without a scar. He had been told, of course, that only the most skilled healer could do that, especially for a mortal wound, but he felt like he had to be that. He felt like he had to be the most skilled at everything.

The robe was ripped, and stained—possibly ruined. Raith glared over his shoulder at the boy. The mother had her arms around him, but the boy didn't even seem to see her. He was watching them with wide eyes, as if he hadn't really grasped what he had been doing, and only now realized the implications.

He had expected Danarius to react with anger, rage—kill the boy. Raith wanted him to. In fact, the words flew out of his mouth before he could reign them in. He glared at the merchant, and pointed at the child. "Kill him," he hissed.

But Danarius rose, slowly, and putting most of his weight on the other leg, to his feet. "No," he said. Raith blinked. No?

He rose, quickly and full of anger. He gestured to the bloodied dagger at their feet. "But that brat could have killed you," he found himself arguing.

The mage didn't answer, but looked at the pair cowering in the cage. The mother looked so terrified for her son's life. The merchant was completely pale, stricken. The magister could have him killed, after all. "I—I'll give him to you, and the woman," he added quickly. "Just… P-please…"

"Have them sent to my manor," the magister said, dismissing him in the same breath. He turned, not even limping as he moved on, back to his manor.

The merchant shouted to his own apprentices, taking out his anger on them. Raith picked up the small blade, and quickly followed after his master.

What was he thinking? Or maybe he just wanted to kill the boy more slowly? Or use his life in a spell? At least some good would come out of the brat's worthless hide!

If Danarius had died… If he hadn't gotten there in time… A person could die from a wound to the leg. They could bleed to death in mere minutes. If he had died, Raith's life might as well be over. He would be a dead magister's apprentice. He couldn't amount to much like that. He didn't know what he would have done.