I, Dacien

A Story by Onyx Tao © 2012

I, Dacien by Onyx Tao is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://onyx-tao.sofurry.com.

Chapter Fourteen: Captivity

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Dacien groaned as he woke up. The mattress - if one could call it that - was barely a pad, a folded blanket on top of rough planking, and he hurt all over, like ... like ... he couldn't quite remember. There had been a ... a ... fight? Had he been in fight? Only he didn't remember a fight, he didn't ... remember.

With a rush of uneasyness, Dacien realized he didn't remember anything. Not how he'd gotten here, not his ... his something, just ...

His eyes snapped open, and he was in a tiny room. There was a minotaur, a huge burly beast, with a pelt so light even in the dim light he could see glints from the whiteness. Pristine, he knew. The minotaur was pristine. And then Dacien got his second surprise as he looked down at himself.

Dacien was just a few inches shy of six feet, with brown hair, and a warrior's body, a man who used sword, and ... he remembered using a sword. Dimly. But ... his body was that of a minotaur, too! A bright crimson red, splotched with white - roan marque blanc, a memory surfaced and vanished - and it felt ... well, it should feel weird, waking up in a minotaur's body, but it didn't. It felt just like ... like ... he'd already done it? He shifted, preparing to stand, and something stopped him. "Oh," he said. "What the fuck?"

And why was there a chain on his ankle? He reached down to touch it, just as the other minotaur asked, "Latin? Why are we speaking Latin?"

Doubly confused, Dacien looked at the minotaur. "Why not?"

"I ..." and the other minotaur paused, pressing his lips together. "I don't know, it struck me as strange. I don't ... I didn't realize I knew Latin. Until you said something."

"What language do you speak?" Dacien asked. "Normally, I mean."

"Greek, of course," the other said, shifting to that language. "Or don't you understand Greek?"

"I do," said Dacien. "A little ..." and then he stopped, puzzled. "Better than I thought. I thought my Greek was choppy, but ..." and then he stopped. "Did I get hit on the head, or something?"

"Something," the other minotaur said, looking away. "Both of us. All of us. And it will only get worse, I think."

"What will?"

"Memory loss," the other said. "But until I forget it, I'm Dusan. You?"

"Dacien," Dacien said. "What do you mean, until you forget it?"

Dusan shrugged. "We've been sold. We're property, and our new masters want us to to forget our old life. To prepare us for our new one."

"Slaves?" That reminded Dacien of something, vaguely. Hadn't that already happened, too?

"Worse," said Dusan. "They are going to ... burn us away, until all we know and think is how to obey them."

"How long have I been here?"

"A day, or two, I think," said Dusan. "Although my memory is not reliable," he said with an attempt at humor. "They brought you, and two others. The other two are in another cell. They can't hear us, if that's what you're wondering."

"No, but I would have ..." said Dacien, reaching down, and gripping the chain. He doubted it would come out, but he had to try. It felt even solider than he'd thought.

"The chain is embedded in the wall," Dusan said. "And reinforced. It won't break."

"Maybe the wall will break," said Dacien.

"Spoken like a true roan," Dusan said. "But, no. These cells date from ..." he paused. "I don't know, anymore." The pristine minotaur turned away, so Dacien couldn't see his face. "I beg your forgiveness."

"Not your fault," said Dacien. "Nothing to ... forgive," and the phrase seemed natural, rote, the right thing to say. Why was he so calm? "Am I, are we, I mean, drugged?"

"Maybe," Dusan said. "I don't know. I never had anything to do with ..." and he stopped. "Odd. I think I used to do something like this, I don't know ..." and Dacien could feel the other's distress. "I asked why he doesn't do all the memory scouring at once, and it's because he strips so much out that he can't get it all."

"He? Who?" A name leaped to mind, a brown minotaur with a smile. "Sasha?" The thought of the brown minotaur doing anything like that felt wrong, somehow.

"Sasha? Who ... no, the mage. Timas."

Mage. That sparked something, too. Sasha was a mage, Dacien remembered, and ... and ... whatever more was there was gone.

"That name doesn't mean anything to me, but ... that doesn't mean anything, either," Dusan sighed. "We have water, and bread. It's dull, but ..."

Dacien unwound the chain from the all, and took a long drink of slightly musty but clean water, and then ate bread. It was better than army food, at least, and then the thought vanished again, like a fish slipping back underwater. The sensation was eerie, and he shuddered.

"Something wrong?"

"Just ... trying to remember something that ..." Dacien swallowed. "That I can't."

"Yes," Dusan said. "I know. It ... it would be depressing if we actually remembered it." The pristine minotaur gave an unhappy snort of laughter. "Believe me, I know."

"How long have you been here?"

"I don't know," Dusan said. "Too long to know, I suppose. I don't remember ..." he paused, and then shook his head. "No, it's gone, so much of it, I don't remember my family, or if I had one, or college, if I went ... I think I must have, I know ... I know all the things a warlord should know, so ..."

"You were a warlord?"

"Or learning," said Dusan, and then grimaced. "If I knew how old I was I could guess, but ... that's gone, too." He took a breath. "Not much left of me, less than I thought."

"How can you ... be so calm about it?"

"Drugged, or maybe there's a calming spell on us to keep us docile," Dusan said. "I suppose it would be as easy to do while he was scouring us."

"Who is he?"

"He's ..." and Dusan paused. "He's a hybrid, Pristine and Ebon. And ... he's served our Masters for a long time. And ..." Dusan shook his head again. "I think I knew more, but it's ... not there. Thin. Gaunt. Looks dusty ... do you remember him?"

Dacien thought, carefully, and then shook his head. "No."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Dusan said, laying back on the other cot.

"It doesn't?"

"No," Dusan said. "By the time they let us out, we won't remember anything. We'll be ready for ..." he stopped again. "Something. The next stage. I ..." and then, "I don't ..." and then, a half-choked sob. "I wish it were over. I hate this, having my mind scraped out like melon."

That was, Dacien realized, probably the single worst thing that could happen to anyone, human or minotaur. Someone had talked to him about it, how a bull was nothing but his memories, and stripping them was a form of ... "Would you rather be dead?" asked Dacien solemnly, remembering how that lecture had finished.

After a moment, Dusan nodded. "I would, but ... I can't ..."

Dacien got up, walked over to where Dusan was sitting. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Dusan said, closing his eyes. "Please."

Dacien gently bent Dusan's head back, and raised his hand for a crushing blow to the throat. It was, he remembered fuzzily, one of the few vulnerable points on a minotaur. He took a breath, wanting to put all his strength into it, to make it quick, at least, if he could do nothing else. No, an alien thought burned through him, and Dacien's hand slipped back to his side.

"I can't, either," Dacien said after a moment. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't think you could," Dusan said, "but I'd hoped, just hoped, that maybe Timas had forgotten it. I should have known better." He took another breath. "At least we won't be aware of what happens to us."

"That's ... that's not really comforting," said Dacien.

"No," Dusan, from his cot. "It's not."

"Does the door ..."

"No," said Dusan. "There's nothing we can do to get the door open, even if we had the key to the shackles. I already tried, just like I'm sure everybull who's been in here has tried. But there's nothing much else to do, so ... go ahead."

"Right," Dacien agreed, and went over to the door. Solid heavy oak, reinforced with steel bands, the door looked every bit as impassable as Dusan had described, and so Dacien turned his attention to the walls. For some reason he'd expected graffiti, but ... they were bare. They were lit with a soft blue radiance, and ... Dacien paused, finding some significance, something he needed to ... and then he looked at the shackle, and the door again, and they, too, had that same blue light, but it didn't seem to light the rest of the cell. The light didn't glint from his cot, or the bucket of water, or the plate of bread, or the other bucket, or even Dusan himself ... although ...

How was he seeing the other minotaur? He could see him, see the brilliant white of his coat but shouldn't it be tinged blue from the light of the walls? There wasn't any other light, so ... so ... why wasn't Dusan blue, in that blue light? Why did he look white, and not merely white, but the gleaming purity of pristine white? Some faint hint of caution, even if he couldn't remember the source, made him ask "Is it always this dark in here?"

"Like a tomb," Dusan said. "There's some light when they open the door, but not much. Not that there's anything to see in here."

"I guess not," Dacien said, since he felt like he had to say something, and how come I can see in the dark? just didn't seem like something he should say, even if he wasn't sure why not. Especially since, now that he stopped to think about it, he was a mage, and that didn't feel like a surprise, so maybe he'd known and it was yet one more memory that had been taken.

Dacien knew with a diffuse but persistent certainty that he should be angry about this, furious, that this wasn't just an injury but the gravest insult, not just to him, but to ... to ...

The thought, and the anger slipped away, and left him floating in a pool of calm, but Dacien knew that was magic, he was shackled not just with steel and chain but his emotions had been locked down, damped, controlled ... but if he was a mage - and he was, he knew he was - then he should be able to -

No.

Dacien came back slowly, he'd been slammed into unconciousness, there had been no subtlety, no finesse, to the effect, no gentleness, for all that it was sleep, and not death, that answered the forbidden action. But ... thinking about magic didn't do anything. Simply seeing in the dark, which had to be some kind of magic, even if he didn't remember doing it, he could do, even if ... no, he remembered nothing about doing magic, that was gone, entirely. But something, when he'd -

No.

Dacien's first thought on coming back this time was that the prohibition was certainly effective. He sighed.

"Are you well?" asked an anxious voice - Dusan. In Latin, interestingly.

"Yes," said Dacien. "Well enough. What ..."

"You just collapsed, on the floor. I put you on your cot, but ... you were out, and you've been out for ... a long time. Long enough for them to bring more bread and water. I tried to tell them you needed help, but ... they don't listen to me any more." There was a short pause. "That's odd."

"What?"

"I was going to say, just, they don't listen to me," Dusan said. "Maybe they did?"

"Don't ... you'll just hurt yourself," Dacien said. What remains of you, anyway.

"Yes, well, I don't think it matters," Dusan said. "Not now. There's no way out, and ... it's a way to pass the time."

"True," said Dacien settling down on the cot again.

After a few minutes, Dusan said, "Actually I don't feel like talking."

"I understand," Dacien said, his thoughts circling slowly around the fundamental question of who he was, if he couldn't remember it. Were those thoughts gone, those memories, the person he had been, gone? Forever? Why would anyone do that? Could there have been a good reason? What could be a good enough reason, anyway - Dacien couldn't think of one.

Eventually, Dacien just got tired of thinking. There was one thing he could do. He reached out for his magic -

No.

The buckets, Dacien discovered finally, were changed by silent minotaurs, ebon-pristine crosses, exactly like ... like ... and he knew he should have been angry again, running into yet another place in his mind that had been ripped out, but he wasn't, and he started to wonder if that artificial calmness wasn't really a good thing. The corridors outside were lit with dim mage-light, but it sufficed to remove the odd perception of the glow that lit the room, or the strange not-light that let him see Dusan. His vision was worse; the minotaurs were white and black and gray, and if it hadn't been for their size, or their resemblance ... resemblance ...

Dacien ignored the hole in his memory, and just watched them. They were quiet, made no sounds, moved around him. On a sudden whim, he swung at one and it blurred out of his way, otherwise just ignoring him.

"They do that," Dusan said, something far away in his voice. "Don't let it bother you."

"I'm not sure anything could bother me," Dacien said tranquilly, watching the silent minotaurs walk out. "I think I'm so spell-wound that I could ..." and then he paused, not wanting to say out, run head-first into a stone wall without flinching. Could he? Was he strong enough for that to be fatal? Yes, he thought he was. Would whatever set of prohibitions he was under prevent him from doing that? Probably, although it would be foolish to test something so self-destructive. No wonder he'd been told that this sort of manipulation was the worst ... someone had told him, Dacien realized, someone important, someone ...

For the first time an emotion peeked through whatever was muffling his thoughts. Loss. It had been, that someone had been ... and ... the harder he tried to remember the bigger the hole was, only it wasn't a hole, Dacien realized, it was a wound. He'd been maimed, and it was worse because ... he couldn't know how, or what, just that he was. Dacien's thoughts darkened, and he promised himself that if he had the chance ... there was no penalty sufficient for this wrong.

From somewhere, from that same gap in himself, floated the thought that he'd asked the question, for ... for ... and there was no way to heal that wound. What had been ripped from him was gone; what had been forgotten, lost.

Dacien lost track of sleeping and wakefulness after that, and after it became clear that talking to Dusan just made the gaps that much more obvious for both of them, they found themselves in mutually agreed-upon silence.

Until Dusan woke him up, shaking him lightly. "What?" Dacien asked.

"Where am I?" Dusan asked.

"A prison," Dacien answered, and then the sleep fell off him, and he realized. "Your name is Dusan."

"It ... it is?"

"Yes," said Dacien, trying not to let his voice shake. "I'm sorry. It's all gone, isn't it?"

"I ... what ... what's gone?"

"Your memory," Dacien whispered. "Everything. Can ... do you remember anything before ... now?"

"No. I was looking for a candle, a lamp, something ..."

"I'm sorry," Dacien said. "It's dark, except ... except when the door opens. There's food, and a ... bucket, if ..."

"Yes," the pristine minotaur that had been Dusan said, and Dacien wordlessly guided him over to it and he used it, and then took a little water, and the plain bread.

After a while, Dusan asked, "Can you tell me anything?" and there was a note of desperation.

"I don't know anything about you, other than your name. You were here when I got here, you remembered ... a little more. A mage took your memories, I think." It's probably going to happen to me, too.

"Why?" asked Dusan.

"I don't know. You did, I think, but ..." you never told me sounded too cruel to finish. "You didn't, anymore, by the time I got here."

"Who are you?"

"Dacien. From nowhere that I remember, of nobody that I know. All I know is that ... there was somewhere. There were people. But it's gone."

"So there were ... people, for me?"

"I assume so," said Dacien. "But I don't know. I don't think I knew you, I doubt you knew me."

"There's nothing there," whispered Dusan. "Nothing."

"What ... why? Why would anyone do this to me? To anyone?"

"I don't know, if I ever did," said Dacien. "Er, this is my cot."

"Oh, yes, I beg your forgiveness," Dusan said, turning and feeling his way over to the other one.

"Nothing to forgive," Dacien said.

"I suppose maybe I'll see if I can get some sleep," Dusan said, and sat down on his cot, laid himself down, and then rolled onto his side. A moment later, he'd curled up, and was starting to shake, although Dacien heard nothing. Dacien stared, puzzled, until he realized that Dusan didn't - couldn't - know Dacien could see in the dark. Dusan was crying, but he would think it was silent, and unseen in the pitch black of the cell.

Dacien struggled with himself for a moment, but ... he got up, the shackle on his chain clinking slightly and that slight sound arrested Dusan's movement. It didn't matter. Dacien took the single step that separated the narrow cots in the tiny cell, and put a hand, slowly, on Dusan's shoulder.

The pristine minotaur tensed, and a glimmer of not-light ran down him, and a corner of Dacien's mind wondered at that even as the rest of him was focused on the minotaur. "I ..." Dacien started, and paused. What could he say? Just ... "I know there's nothing I can say," Dacien started again. "I can't tell you it will work out, because ..." because he didn't, but Dacien didn't want to say that. "There's nothing to say."

Dacien lay down next to the motionless minotaur, as close as the taut chain on his ankle would permit, reached out, and pulled Dusan closer to him. "For the moment," Dacien said, his voice quiet, "we're both alive."

Dusan gave a single, wracking sob.

"I know," whispered Dacien. "I know."

Some unknowable amount of time later that felt like hours but could have been minutes to a day, two of the silent ebon-pristine hybrids separated them, pulling Dusan out of the cell in the same wordless economy of motion with which they did everything, and the door closed again. The pristine minotaur had been frantic when they entered, and was frenzied when the door closed, but the click of the door cut off the sounds of his protest like a cleaver might take off the neck of a chicken.

More magic, Dacien thought bitterly, knowing that there was ... something, something he should have done. Something he should be able to do. Something he could do, if it weren't for that merciless, accursed voice in his head, that resounding no followed by unconsciousness. He'd felt helpless before, he knew, but ... he didn't think it had ever had this tang of bitterness to it. It might be that not all minotaurs were monsters - and why would he think that, he wondered - but some were.

These were.

It was another unknowable amount of time, albeit one that felt shorter, when they brought the limp figure of Dusan back, and rechained the unmoving figure. Dacien couldn't see in the dim light from the corridor, but once the door shut and the dark closed around them again, he could.

Lines of gold glimmered across Dusan's body, roughly horizontal, long across his back, shorter against his sides and legs and arms ... only his face didn't have them, although there were silvery tear-tracks running down his face. It took a moment for him to recognize the lines as cuts, from a whip - a metal cane, applied with force and cruelty - and Dacien was almost to him when Dusan croaked out, "No, don't ... don't touch me, Dacien, don't touch me, you'll get it on you, too ... don't touch me!"

"Get what on you?" Why was this familiar?

"I ..." and Dusan didn't bother choking back the sob this time. "Urine. I'm soaked in it, it will ... they're breaking me, Dacien, but there's no reason for it to happen to you."

"It will happen to me, anyway," Dacien said, starting to move. "That's the only possible outcome."

"Please," said Dusan with a groan. "Please don't."

Dacien stopped. "I will respect your wishes, but ..." Dacien paused. "But you will be beyond helping, soon, won't you?"

"Yes," said Dusan.

"And I will be beyond being able to help, yes?"

"You ... maybe." A moment later dragged the more honest, "Yes. If you're here, with me, then ... yes."

"Then why not let me help while I still can?" said Dacien, quietly. "Please?"

Dusan looked at him. "You ... that is ..." the minotaur groaned. "Ridiculous and ... hard to refute. But if you feel that strongly ..."

Dacien was there, reaching into the water bucket, pulled up the dipper, wet a rag of blanket, and began sponging Dusan down.

"Don't ..."

"I won't get it in our drinking water," sighed Dacien.

"It's ... just hitting me ... pretty hard ..." said Dusan. "And ... your touch is ... making it almost as much worse as better, if you understand ..."

"Oh, I understand," Dacien said with feeling. "It's just like when ..." and Dacien paused. When what? "I ... think I've been where you are now, it's just ..."

"Something you almost but can't quite remember, yes," said Dusan, between small jerks as he "Believe me, I know ..."

"We both do," said Dacien, continuing to sponge off the blood. "We both do."

Dacien had worked his way over Dusan's back, and had just started at the top of his legs. The marks here were deeper and wider, and Dacien was more careful. "This looks ... pretty harsh."

"I've ..." and there was a pause, "seen worse."

"I'm sorry," Dacien said. "Does this hurt?"

"Don't be sorry," Dusan said. "I think ... I think I was the one doing it. And no, it's not bad. It will help it heal, anyway. I ... I know I don't know you well enough to ask, but I really need to be fucked."

"Oh, look on the positive side. You might have," said Dacien with a grin.

"I ..." and there was silence, followed a moment later with laughter.

The laughter, and everything else, was over by the time the door opened, and Dusan was taken away, again. After some time, another minotaur entered, an ebon marque blanque, followed by an even larger, deep ebon minotaur, wearing deep black clothes with a green shimmer. The obvious finery drew Dacien's attention to the much plainer clothes of the ebon-pristine minotaur. Well-made, but worn, they didn't even looked dyed, trousers and tunics in two different shades of yellowed off-white, and certainly not matched and carefully fit like the ebon's. They both looked at Dacien steadily, and Dacien just forced himself to look back. Neither looked familiar, but Dacien could hardly trust his memory at this point.

"Who are you?" Dacien asked.

"Be silent," the ebon said. "Your voice offends me."

"Then you are easily offended," Dacien said. "As well as rude. Who are you?"

"Its obedience leaves much to be desired," the ebon said, disappovingly. "Why is it still talking?"

"It does not recognize you as to be obeyed, you must identify yourself."

"Hybrid," the ebon minotaur said, "I am Wolachya, and I am to be obeyed. Be silent in my presence."

Dacien felt ... something shift, even as the ebon-pristine minotaur said, "It will be silent, Master, although, if I may say ..."

You can go fuck yourself, died on Dacien's tongue. He couldn't say it.

"No," said the ebon. "You may not. I am not interested in excuses, Timas, and neither are my colleagues. I can see this will take time, so begin bringing it under full control immediately."

"Master, I don't understand. Do you mean adjusting it, or ..."

"No, Timas. Its mind is healing, isn't it?"

"Yes, Master."

"How long until its temporal sense can be enhanced?"

Magic blossomed, like the keening of a high wind, and Dacien just barely prevented himself from trying to touch it, by trying to tell the ebon Wolachya whatever it was to go fuck yourself with a pike. He couldn't say it, couldn't even begin to, but the effort kept him motionless. Was that the beginning of the twitch of a smile on the mindbender's face?

"Not less than a month, Master, perhaps longer. It's healing slowly."

"Why?"

"I ... that is ... because of the shape of its mind, Master, and I had to cut deeper than usual to remove some childhood memories without ... it is hard to explain, Master, so that it would make sense. I could show you, Master."

"You may not touch my mind," the ebon said almost instantly.

"No, Master."

"Nor the mind of any pureblood without the council's command."

"I understand and obey, Master. I was merely ..."

"You may stop explaining yourself now," the ebon said. "It is not important. Do those strictures still hold firm in your mind?"

"They do, Master."

"See that they remain so."

"Yes, Master."

"Have you touched the mind of any pureblood other than those selected for conversion, for any reason other than to test their loyalty to their line?"

"No, Master."

"You are clear that you are to report any such request to me and to the entire council, at the first possible moment, and that nothing is more important than that report?"

"Yes, Master, I understand."

"Bring him under control by conventional means. It will be slow, but we have time, and it's better, in any case."

"Yes, Master. Should I keep Four and Five separated, then?"

Five. That was important; vitally important, but ... why? Why?

"No ... they are all under the simple obedience compulsion?"

"Yes, Master."

"Then command them all to be silent, and begin their conditioning."

"Yes, Master."

"And ... have this one dyed. Its coloration is offensive."

"Yes, Master."

"Keep me informed," the ebon said. "Carry on."

"Yes, Master."

The ebon turned and left, and Dacien drew a breath, waiting until the ebon-pristine minotaur turned back to him. He didn't want to give the mage time to say anything, so, as soon as he could speak again ... "Timas, mindfuck Wolachya into wanting to fuck a sow!"

The smile came and went so quickly that Dacien would have missed it, but Timas simply bowed, and left, closing the door behind him.

Dusan was not returned, but it was still a long wait - silent ebon-pristine minotaurs replaced the bread and water three times before Timas returned. Dacien had been planning his next order, but magic gripped him, and held him motionless as the door opened. "I am Timas," the ebon marque marque blanc minotaur said quietly, "and I am to be obeyed. You will be silent at all times, never to speak unless you are singled out, and specifically ordered to speak."

Dacien could feel the command take hold, and cursed silently.

"Our Masters do not appreciate defiance," Timas said, lifting his arms and pulling his tunic off. He turned around, revealing a back that had been shredded by whipstrokes - Dacien had seen deserters, and the images of humans so beaten jumped into his mind. They died, he remembered, although he couldn't remember who they were, or what they had done, other than desert ... abandon ... what?

"I will recover," the mage said, pulling the tunic back on and turning back to face Dacien. "I was instructed to show you how painful ill-considered defiance can be. Do you understand?"

Dacien must have looked as confused as he felt, or perhaps the mage was still in his mind - creepy thought, that, for the minotaur said, slowly, "Have you, then seen how painful ill-considered defiance can be?"

Had he seen ...

Oh.

Dacien felt sick for a moment, and then shook his head, and then nodded, yes. He hadn't asked Timas to do that for him, hadn't expected Timas to take the whipping himself, so he could show Dacien how painful defiance could be, Dacien would have been perfectly happy to take it himself ... his throat froze, though, when Dacien tried to ask, why.

Timas just stared at him. "I am pleased that you see how painful ill-considered defiance can be," the minotaur said.

Oh. Dacien nodded. "And, of course, being silent, you will be unable to ... misrepresent yourself, or trigger any other important commands," the mage went on. "Come."

Without even thinking about it, Dacien got up, and started to follow the mage, until the shackle stopped him. Timas reached down, and the shackle clicked open. "Come."

Conditioning consisted of long-distance running, through a long circular tunnel that spiraled down several hundred feet to a turnaround area, and Dacien counted twenty-eight other minotaur doing that run as well. Most of them were ebon, or pristine, and they wore clothing ... like Wolachya's, not Timas. Six of them were ebon marque blanc or pristine marque noir, and they were dressed ... like he was.

It was something to think about.

Ill-considered defiance was another thing to think about, while he ran up and down the spiral. Someone in his past had been ... had taught ... the gap was there, and he didn't know who it was, or if it had even been simply one bull alone, but he'd taught Dacien to listen carefully. That minotaurs (and why was he not thinking of himself as one of them? That was another puzzle buried under the gaps, but Dacien set that one aside). Timas had used the phrase ill-considered every time he's said defiance. Ponder it as he might, Dacien could only come to one conclusion: Timas was urging considered defiance. Telling him, in fact, that there was some way he might fight back. But the way Timas had phrased it, that, too, was telling. It wasn't what Timas had said, but what he hadn't said. Obviously the mage, too, was a slave, as tightly controlled - no, more tightly controlled - than Dacien was right now.

But what kind of defiance? He'd discovered he had to obey Timas, and Wolachya, and any of the other trainers who simply told him their names, and ordered him to obey. Since Timas' first command had been silence, it didn't leave a lot of option. He could, he supposed, reach out to his magic and pass out, that would be a kind of defiance, but it didn't seem effective. It didn't tell him anything, and ... he couldn't wait on Timas to find the opportunity to not say, however carefully, what would be effective. Obviously the mage had something in mind, something he ... wanted? Hoped?

No, he was going about this backwards. What kind of commands had Timas been given? Obey, obviously. Do not thwart us, seemed likely. Specific commands, probably about when and how he could use his magic - and never on purebloods ... purebloods ... that stirred something in his memory, too, and Dacien cursed his captors for the thousandth time for butchering his thoughts like this. Only Timas had said more, that his Masters wanted ... wanted to keep him from misrepresenting himself, or triggering orders like he had with Timas.

And suddenly he felt like an idiot. He'd known what to say, he'd heard Wolachya say it, Timas say it, the trainers say it. All he'd needed to do was to say I am Dacien. I am to be obeyed. Maybe it wouldn't have worked on Timas, but ... Dacien was certain it would have worked on Dusan, and perhaps any of the other ... The other part became clear. Purebloods. Wolachya's distaste at his roan and pristine markings. They weren't pure, not to these minotaur, not worthy, they were nothing and less than nothing, things to be reshaped into ... into ...

Obedient mindless killing machines.

Where the memory came from, Dacien couldn't say, but he had it. He'd seen it. And then he had hope. If nothing was possible, if he was to fall into that abyss, then ... why would Timas warn him about ill-considered defiance, or mention the possibility of misrepresenting himself? He might not have speech now, but ... perhaps he could find some way to get it back. Or ...

Dacien would simply be alert to other possibilities. There had to be some, after all, or Timas wouldn't have said anything. His letters were poor, he remembered, but perhaps he could write. And ... maybe he could escape, after all. If his orders were misphrased. Or ... Dacien considered. Or even misinterpreted. There had to be some possibilities there. Not every trainer could be as precise or exacting as Wolachya had to Timas, earlier. No, he needed to pretend to obey, pretend to bend, pretend until he had the information he needed.

Dacien would wait, he decided, with whatever well-considered defiance he could, until he had a real chance of escape.