“Children meant to be seen, not heard? Bah, better for children to be neither.”
That is what Jinyel remembers the most from Landel, the first man who raised him. His father, perhaps, with a deep voice and some craft that kept him locked in a workshop all hours of the day. Or perhaps Landel had bought the boy as an assistant, or plucked him off the street like a stray cat, and then been dismayed to find that the boy couldn’t study to save either of their lives. Jinyel was clever enough, but he couldn’t sit still and listen at the same time, and his quickness turned into skittishness when Landel made his anger known through welts on Jinyel’s knuckles.
Jinyel remembers a woman, in the hazy way of difficult memories, who would visit sometimes and run gentle hands through his hair. He doesn’t remember her identity, just the scent of a flower he cannot name.
Jinyel remembers the sale more clearly. Or trade, or ‘apprenticeship,’ or whatever Landel called it. Jinyel was twelve, and a valuable horse was worth more than a boy who could never learn Landel’s craft. Perhaps the traveling merchant saw something charming in Jinyel, but there was never a chance to find out. It took six trials on the road for raiders to claim the caravan and its goods, which included a lanky boy too young to defend himself. So began seven long years of captivity.
In hindsight, Jinyel’s first captors would have been the easiest to escape, simply because they were a disorganized mess. Their leader hailed from a mighty Yaralon company, and he bade his men to fight where they pleased and plunder whatever they had the strength to keep, in hopes of returning to Yaralon under his banner. Jinyel was tossed from task to task, scrubbing pots and tending horses and bringing drink to whoever shouted the loudest. He feared his captors, but he feared the wilderness more.
The chaos didn’t last. Someone caught wind that the leader’s ‘mighty Yaralon company’ was nonexistent, and that the ‘tithes’ he’d been sending to his commander had actually gone into his own treasure chest. Blades were drawn, blood was spilled, and the survivors parted ways with whatever goods they could carry.
Jinyel was carried off by Hecrin, a tall, brawny man with the strength to lift Jinyel by one hand. With a chain around the boy’s feet and wilderness on all sides, Jinyel was past the point of escape. He had no choice but to follow, and to serve Hecrin in whatever violent way his captor desired.
They headed toward Yaralon, or at least tried to. Hecrin was brash and arrogant, but blessed with a good sword-arm and just enough common sense to keep them away from the obviously dangerous trails. The main issue was that Yaralon as a city was difficult to track, because Hecrin had never set foot there before and had no native sponsor to aide in entry.
When Jinyel was sixteen, they found an outer settlement where a true, native mercenary company was posted to protect mining interests. Hecrin’s excitement soon turned to dismay when the mercenary leader refused to offer directions to the city, or to spare any men to escort them. The company was contracted to guard the settlement for the next year, and Hecrin’s rage only seemed to amuse them. With no direction, all Hecrin could do was wait and try to earn some sort of favor.
If the mercenaries were amused by Hecrin’s impatience, they were even more amused by Jinyel’s growing talent. The skinny boy was turning fast into a skinny young man, with quick fingers and a quiet tongue. Jinyel listened, he learned, he memorized all the safe shadows of the mining settlement, and perhaps the mercenary leader saw some talent there. Enough talent to command an archer to teach the young man his way around a bow, which angered Hecrin to discover. When Hecrin moved to beat Jinyel, Jinyel vanished into the outskirt wilderness like a ghost, to return at sundown and eat Hecrin’s food.
A game soon developed between Jinyel and Hecrin, cheered on by the mercenary company. They laughed when Jinyel slipped Hecrin’s grasp, they laughed when Hecrin managed to catch Jinyel and thrash him black and blue. They threw in “prizes” to make the game more interesting; a knife, a coil of rope, a sturdy shortbow after its owner lost too many fingers to use it anymore, their hunter’s wisdom about animal tracks and hiding places. Jinyel, turned crafty by years of slavery, caught every treasure and squirreled it away in the hidden places of the outpost. Trials turned into cycles, and puberty turned Jinyel into a tall, wiry creature who could slither through wilderness like a cat.
And then, one day, Jinyel was taller than Hecrin. They played the game as they usually did, Jinyel after Hecrin’s food and Hecrin after Jinyel’s blood, and the furious Hecrin had forgotten his sword in his tent because he was so used to beating Jinyel with fists. But today, Jinyel’s arms were longer, and he knew his slaver’s habits almost as well as he knew the surrounding wilderness. He didn’t merely attempt to fight back―he succeeded. Hecrin was too drunk and confused to put up much of a fight, and all Jinyel needed was a knife and a moment of opportunity. At eighteen years old, Jinyel pierced one of Hecrin’s lungs, cut both his hamstrings, then dragged the man out of the settlement into the closest jackal territory so the animals could make use of his flesh.
Back in the settlement, the mercenary company was delighted to see that their game had a winner. Once Jinyel had claimed Hecrin’s horse and supplies, the company leader gave him the treasure which Hecrin had so coveted: directions to Yaralon, and instructions to contact them once they returned from their contract. They could use a crafty little woodsman, the company leader said, and they would be happy to take him into their ranks once he proved himself by reaching the city.
Always polite to those stronger than him, Jinyel thanked them, set out at dawn, and waited until he was miles out of sight. Then he turned north instead of east, and galloped away from Yaralon as fast as his horse could manage. North, to the Eternal Empire, and to a future that was unknown and free.
