Page 13 of The Jester

“Not all,” Kayan says gently. “Alana . . .”

“Quiet!” the voice of the Gloomweaver who carried me through the forest booms into the darkness. “The next faerie who speaks will find themselves missing a tongue in the morning.”

My body aches. My wings are cramped and sore from being bound for what feels like an eternity. Two days have passed since the raid, two days of rattling along rough roads, being denied food and given only a few sips of water.

A while ago, just after midday, we entered the city. The air changed. It grew thick with smoke, and sweat, and bodies, and dust. Already, I crave air. Real air that is thick with dew, and moss, and life.

The air here is thick with nothing but death.

Finally, the wagon jolts to a stop.

As the Gloomweavers bark orders and the wagons are unloaded, I strain to hear the sounds around me. The clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the distant shouts of merchants hawking their wares, the pungent smell of sewage and unwashed bodies. There is only one place we can be; Luminael the capital city of Veridia. A place that was once bright, and ethereal, and full of magic which, under the rule of Lord Eldrion – the oldest fae in the kingdom – has fallen to ruin.

Amid the cacophony, a sickening realisation dawns on me. “They’re going to sell us,” I whisper, my voice hoarse and ragged. “Eldrion’s slaving district.. . that’s where they’re taking us. We’ve all heard the stories about how he wants to rid the outer regions of elemental fae.”

“Quiet,” Rawk hisses, but I can hear the fear in his voice. For years, we’ve heard tales of Eldrion’s family. The fae who have become ever more cruel with each generation, turning Luminael into a place where Sunborne fae like him rule supreme.

To the others, a little softer, he says, “I won’t let that happen. We’ll find a way out.”

A jolt of laughter parts my lips. “How? We’re bound, powerless. Fighting will only make it worse.”

Rawk doesn’t reply.

Silence descends, broken only by the thud of footsteps and the clank of chains as we’re dragged from the wagon. I stumble, my legs weak and unsteady, but rough hands grip my arms, hauling me forward.

We’re thrown into cells, the iron bars slamming shut with a deafening clang. I hear Kayan inhale sharply as his sack is ripped away; I’d know his breath anywhere.

“What are those?” he asks, panic lacing his tone.

“Magic binders,” a gruff voice replies. “Don’t want any faerie tricks ruining our plans.”

Kayan falls quiet. There is a clicking sound as, I assume, his collar is removed and replaced by the cuffs. The same voice says, “Strip,” and there follows a hiss of water and Kayan’s grunt of pain.

Barely a moment later, my own sack is yanked off, and I blink in the dim light, my eyes struggling to adjust. I catch a glimpse of Kayan, naked and shivering, before a pair of pale brown pants are tossed at his feet and he’s chained to the wall.

The others huddle near the doors. Perhaps twenty of us, which means the rest of the village is... where?

I am trying to count, trying to see if I recognise anyone’s feet or lower limbs when the slaver who kidnapped me steps out of the shadows. His lips stretch into a wide, spittle-laced grin. Dangling a key in front of me, he unfastens my collar and lets it drop to the ground. I rub my neck, my skin sighing with relief.

The Gloomweaver leers, his eyes roaming my body with undisguised hunger even though I’m still fully clothed. “Those gloves,” he says, reaching for my hands. “Take them off.”

Panic surges through me, even though it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I took this slaver’s mind and broke it.

From the huddle of bodies, I hear Rawk’s bitter tone. “Trust me,” he mutters, “you don’t want her to do that.”

“And why’s that?” The Gloomweaver stalks over to Rawk, tugging on the hood that still covers his face and torso.

“Because she’s a freak,” Rawk spits. “She’ll sap the energy from you if she touches you.” He jerks his head in Kayan’s direction. “She did it to him. Sucked out his magic. Took him twenty years to find his mind again. And now, he can’t even fly.”

“Rawk, what are you doing?” someone hisses. “Stop telling them things.”

“Listen,” Rawk says, pushing back his shoulders even though they’re bound. “I can handle her. You treat me with a little more respect and I’ll help you make sure she’s an asset, not a deadly waste of space.”

Bile swills in my stomach.

There’s a long pause, then the Gloomweaver hawks saliva into his mouth, spits on the floor, and says, “Fine, but one wrong move and you’re faerie dust.”

Roughly, he tugs the sack over Rawk’s head.

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