Despite his worries, Ash was ravenous, as he always was after a difficult healing, and he ate heartily.
All through breakfast, he gripped his amulet, feeding it the trickle of power that was all he could manage. Soon, he’d have enough to do some real damage.
He was just finishing eating when he heard a commotion in the corridor. His door flew open and six blackbirds poured into the room. They were all mages, all collared, and they seemed to be on a mission. One of them shut the door and put his back against it, while the other five surrounded Ash. He grabbed for his amulet, but two of them pinned his arms before he could touch it.
Panic flickered through him again. Had the Darian brother survived after all? Had they come to take him down to the dungeons?
Worse, had Lila betrayed him?
“Relax, boy,” one of them said. “There’s no point in fighting it. You’ll get used to it after a while.” He dug in a carry bag and pulled out a silver collar, inscribed with runes. Ash recognized it as one of the flashcraft collars made by the clans during the wizard wars, now used by Arden to enslave the gifted.
Maybe it was useless to resist, but Ash refused to go quietly into bondage, so it took all five of them to pin him to the floor and fasten the thing around his neck. If he’d had more magic on board, maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all. By the end, one of the gifted blackbirds had a bloody nose and another a purpling eye and Ash had a collar around his neck.
He crouched in a corner like a wolf at bay, exploring the thing with his hands. He found the catch, which seemed to be welded shut now. He could feel the engraving under his sensitive fingers. It was a wide piece, and he found he had to keep his head upright or it would bite into his chin or his collarbone.
The blackbirds watched him with varying degrees of sympathy, depending on how they’d fared in the wrestling match. Some wouldn’t look at him at all.
The mage who’d brought the collar extended a hand to help him up. After a moment’s hesitation, Ash took it and stood. “How does it work?” he asked. “Does it make it impossible to use magic or what?”
The mage shook his head. “They want to take advantage of magery—that’s the whole point. So they need us to be able to do spellcasting. Here at court, the collars prevent us from using attack magic and killing charms. That’s the main limitation.”
“Do they work on their own or does somebody have to activate it?”
“They work on their own. General Karn has some magemasters who oversee the program and can change the settings when we go into the field.”
“What triggers it—the nature of the charm or the intent?”
“Trying to figure out a way around it, are you? Good luck.” The mage stuck out his hand. “I’m Marc DeJardin. Call me Marc.”
“Adam Freeman.” Ash paused. “You’re a southerner, right?”
Marc nodded. “There are mages in the south, though the Church of Malthus would like to pretend otherwise. For centuries, we’ve been able to survive, as long as we keep our heads down and our magic to ourselves. Until King Gerard found a use for us.” He tapped his own collar with his forefinger. “Out in the field, these can be used to track our movements, to control our use of attack magic, and to direct our behavior in battle. They’re also used to torture or kill a mage that misbehaves.”
“Define ‘misbehaves,’” Ash said.
The mage snorted. “A mage who doesn’t follow orders, who tries to escape, who fights back. As long as you do what you’re told, they pretty much leave you alone.”
Ash saw then that the flesh around Marc’s collar was thickened, rough, and badly scarred, as if it had been repeatedly burned in the past.
Marc noticed him staring. He smiled crookedly and ran a finger under his collar. “I used to misbehave a lot,” he said. “We’d better go. The king is waiting.”
They walked back toward the center of the palace, the council chambers and the king’s apartments. The guards had to slow their pace to match Ash’s faltering gait. Despite the hour, there were many people about, most of them servants. He didn’t draw as many stares as before, because now he was clean and clad in the bark brown of the healers. It seemed the king of Arden liked to sort people by colors.
His escorts stopped before a door that looked much like any other, except that there was a brace of the king’s guards standing in front. “Prepare to kneel to the king, healer,” the outside guard muttered, giving him a rough push through the doorway. Marc followed him in.
He found himself in a small reception room, sumptuously decorated, with tall windows overlooking the gardens. The king sat finishing breakfast at a small table by the fireplace. Eggs and ham, not babies and kittens, as Ash might have expected.
He’s just a man, Ash told himself. He can die, like anyone else.