The Forgotten Crown (2019) Book 1 of The Broken Crown Series

29. Broken

       Donovan was cuffed to the back of a wagon, weary and footsore beyond any hardship in memory. One eye was blackened and swelling. The cut on his lip pulled taut on his dry and cracked skin, bleeding with even the slightest movement. He and Jarsha had been beaten soundly and chained to the back of the wagon when they had attacked a guard trying to remove the unconscious Sirena from their tiny cell. She was left alone for the moment but they struggled on in the heat, unsure of how much longer they could remain upright.

Stealing small snatches of conversation, they determined the others must still be alive for they had seen no bodies and Slavers would never waste a grave on a slave. Women were too precious a commodity among the trade to wantonly kill. There was even a market for stolen children, so they remained positive Syrus would come to no harm.

        The two of them, however, were fighters. A string of jibberish had bounced back and forth between their captors as they were poked and prodded, much excitement made over the telltale callouses on their hands.  Hands that were familiar with weapons. Neither Jarsha or Donovan spoke whatever crude language these slavers used but the intent was clear; they would be put to use in the ring.

Their greatest worries though, lay upon Sirena. Her foreign beauty would demand an enormous price amongst brothels or wealthy Lords. The thought made Donovan so sick he thought he might vomit despite his empty stomach.

        At long last the caravan slowed; the sun a giant, swollen orb resting atop the distant golden hills. Too tired to fight or even look askance at their jailers, they were roughly shoved back in their mobile cell. Together, with what little strength remained, they shifted Sirena's still form to the rear of the cart, shielding her with their bodies. Collapsing on the floor, they panted heavily into the scorching air, every breath both a burden and a gift.

        Some time later or perhaps no time at all, bowls of gruel and water were tossed haphazardly amongst them and the men fell upon them like ravenous wolves. Setting aside her meager portion, they attempted to wake Sirena, for she had slept far too long.

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        Frost. The frost moved through her like tinkling shards of light and ice, swirling in a storm of perfection. The coolness blessed her lips and sank down into her like a balm.

        "Wake, Sirena. You must wake."

        "Oh, I do not wish to wake mother."

        One eye cracked open and was flooded with soft light and yet it was not painful. Not mother. Someone known to her however and who knew her in return. The woman sat before her in long robes of ivory and pale gold. Long raven tresses fell about her, framing a pale, angelic face with eyes so blue they were almost purple. Instinctively she felt the woman a friend.

        "You have much yet to do light-bearer."

        "The shadows, they will find me." She repulsed a shudder.

        "They cannot harm you, for you carry power they do not."

        "What sort of power do I bear that does not mark me as one of them?"

        "The power you bear is freely given, while they choose to plunder what is not rightfully theirs."

        "But how did I come about such a gift, wise one?" The honorific title sprang to her lips as if always there, yet it felt appropriate.

        The purple eyes beheld her, filled with an ancient sadness, so ancient it seemed she could become lost in the depths of them.