Free Land of the Burning Sands by Rachel Neumeier

alive—if his sister had still been in Breidechboden and not far away in Abreichan—but no one had even tried to help him.
    He drew a deep breath. Looked again into his master’s face. Amnachudran’s expression was hard to read. So was his wife’s. Gereint said with some intensity, “It was nineteen years ago. When I was still young enough to believe a woman was worth dying for. Even then, I hope I wasn’t stupid enough to believe any woman was worth…” He touched his face. Traced the path of the iron. Repeated, “It was nineteen years ago.”
    “They’re still dead,” Lady Emre said quietly.
    Gereint dropped his hand. He didn’t look at the lady. But he said, “Yes, that’s true.” Then he drew a breath. Faced Amnachudran again. “I’m no longer that stupid boy. An impulsive crime, you said. It was that. I’m… about as far from impulsive, now, as any man you’ll ever meet. Sir. Master.” Promises about future behavior were pointless: Amnachudran was not a fool. Gereint said with low, passionate intensity, “You didn’t ask to be my judge. I know that. I just… fell into your hands. But you could free me. No one else can. No one else will. Please free me.”
    “In fact…” Amnachudran began, but then stopped. He looked at his wife. She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. Amnachudran nodded as though she had spoken. He turned back to Gereint, frowning.
    Gereint bowed his head under that stern regard. He fought to clear all signs of recent emotion from his face. He was shaking; he couldn’t help that. He tried desperately to recapture a proper slave’s resignation—he would have done anything to be this man’s slave when he’d belonged to Perech Fellesteden. The worse thing, the very worst, would be for Amnachudran to decide that, after all, he was too much trouble to keep… He tried to think of something to say, anything, to prevent that. It was important to remember that Eben Amnachudran was more intelligent than he was…
    “Take off your boots,” Amnachudran ordered.
    For a long moment, Gereint did not believe he could have heard that command properly. The
geas
believed it, however. His body moved without conscious direction; he had his first boot off before he could actually believe the man had said those words. If Fellesteden had given that order—but if
Amnachudran
gave it, he meant to—he actually meant—Gereint fumbled off the second boot with clumsy hands and looked up, hardly breathing, in terror that he might have somehow misunderstood.
    But Amnachudran had a knife out and was beckoning for Gereint to put his foot up on the edge of a chair. He cut the first cord. Gereint thought he could feel the strands part. The entire
geas
trembled, poised on the edge of that knife.
    Then the other foot. The other cord. As quickly and easily as if it was any cord.
    The
geas
, defanged, settled quietly to the back of Gereint’s awareness to wait for a new master’s claim. Gereint stared down at his feet, at the plain silver rings, at the bits of cord scattered on the floor.
    Amnachudran went back behind his desk and put the knife away with fussy precision. His wife nodded in calm approval, rose to her feet, smiled at Gereint—he was far too stunned to smile back—and went out of the room.
    Gereint put his boots back on, hiding the rings. Then he stood up, turned, and deliberately dropped to his knees.
    Amnachudran looked up sharply.
    “Tell me to get up,” Gereint suggested.
    Amnachudran half smiled. “Stand up!” he commanded.
    “No,” said Gereint, and laughed. “I didn’t expect you to do it. I never for one moment thought you would do it! Ah!” He flung his head back in extravagant joy, lifting his hands. “Do you doubt you’ve repaid me for your life? Don’t doubt it!”
    Amnachudran did smile this time, but shook his head. “Gereint—”
    “You won’t regret it,” Gereint promised him. “Not by anything I do.”
    “I trust that I won’t. Please get up, as a