Empire of Ashes

Chapter XLIV - As Above, So Below

"You're all done," he told me as my thoughts raced. "Wrists on the table, northerner."

I hopped down, and Tem did as he was told. The blacksmith brought out manacles without chains attached — just dead weights for the ends of his arms. There were loops for the chains if necessary, but there was no sense in restricting how hard and fast he could swing a pick for the time being.

While he hammered them shut, I tested the length of the chain. I could walk, but not at full speed, and there was certainly no chance of jumping onto a horse with the chain around the girth.

"I've got to number you now," the smith said after a while. "My apologies."

He had a sort of device that he could slot the numbers into, with a dot between each. The first was the triple bar — three. That was the hill number, he explained. The second was the spindly barred cross — eleven. That was the level underground. The last was individual for each of us. Seven for me, twenty-two for Temris.

He wrote each of our numbers in some sort of book along with a vague description. No names. Apparently, names were worthless here. Those written numbers would tell a person how many slaves they could expect to find in those tunnels, how much food they needed to provide, and the amount of ore they could expect to sell.

The brand was heated on the coals until it glowed cherry red. I had done this not three days ago, but the sight of it still took me by surprise. It was easy to forget how real it looked, how the glow alone could set my shoulder on fire all over again.

The process wasn't like my first brand had been — a grim production line in the slave column. It was much calmer and slower. The smith gave me a folded belt to bite down on, worn with the toothmarks of others. I braced my arms across the worktop of my own volition, and there were no rough arms dragging me towards the fire.

"Fair warning — if you move and smudge it, I will have to start again," he said as he took the brand from the coals with a huge woollen mitt. I reckoned I could keep still, but I also reckoned it wasn't worth the risk.

As if he could hear my thoughts, Tem sidled to the other side of the worktop, leant over and wove his fingers into mine. The grip was gentle but firm, the skin was warmer than it had any right to be, and one of his fingertips wandered across the sensitive skin of my palm. I could feel his pulse thumping, and it quickened as I lifted my eyes to meet his and smiled lazily.

And then, when we had delayed as long as humanly possible, and there wasn't anything else left to do, the smith murmured a warning and pressed the brand to the smooth, pale skin of my forearm.

This time, I didn't pass out. That pleased me in some deep, twisted way. I must have gotten stronger since that first branding, must have learned to cope with pain. If all else went to shit, at least I could hang to that one hope that everything I had suffered had made stronger.

But it still hurt. There was no denying that. My flesh sizzled and burnt. A few square inches of flesh, that was all, but it felt like my whole body was on fire. Five full seconds, he held it in place, and as each one passed my skin screamed a little louder.

Finally, the heat was gone and the hundreds of needle-like complaints died away, one by one, until I realised that the smell of my own burning flesh hung in the air. And there were the numbers, etched red and raw into my skin. I wasn't aware that I had tried to pull away, but Tem had tightened his hold on me considerably.

"I'm fine," I muttered, answering the question prematurely. A pair of blue eyes blinked at me, and I knew he had heard every layer of pain and weariness beneath the words.

The smith cooled the numbers in a tank and swapped the last number for another. Then it went back into the fire and we watched the metal change colour all over again. There was no need for either of us to move, because our positions were identical. I tightened my grip on his fingers a little. If he had really tried to struggle, I would have been powerless to stop him, but he didn't do anything more than flinch when the iron first touched.