Rialla knew that Winterseine was a formidable warrior: it was one of the reasons for his success as a slaver. Looking at his son, she decided that Terran might be as good. Certainly he bestrode his battle-trained stallion with the ease of long practice, and the easy way that he'd tossed her on her horse argued that he had strength.
Winterseine's man Tamas held the lead rein for Rialla's horse. Like her, he was mounted on a lighter-bred saddle horse. He wasn't armed with anything more formidable than the heavy whip that was coiled on his saddle, but Rialla had seen such a whip wielded at Sianim and didn't underestimate the damage he could inflict with it.
They traveled south through the rolling hills of southern Darran. Everywhere, Rialla could see the toll of the last war. Many of the farmhouses had been recently constructed over old foundations. Several times she saw the burned-out remains of dwellings that had not been rebuilt, perhaps because there was no one left to do so.
They stopped near one of the charred cottages shortly before sunset. Camp was set up with a minimum of fuss. Winterseine used the leash on the training collar to stake Rialla to the ground near the fire, where she would be easily visible throughout the night. He didn't remove the bindings from her arms.
None of the restraints were overly tight, but her arms had been in the same position for the better part of the day and her shoulder was beginning to ache. Between that and her throbbing leg, Rialla decided that a decent night's rest was doubtful. Adding insult to injury, she had the choice of lying with her face in the dirt, or with her weight on her awkwardly bound arms.
Rialla.
She thought she must have jumped, but if she had no one had noticed. She wasn't used to someone speaking in her mind. Tris?
Yes. How is your leg?
She tested it cautiously. It hurts, but no more than it did.
Good.
She waited, but he didn't say anything more. With a resigned sigh she rolled on her face. To her surprise she fell into a restful doze that lasted through the night.
The next morning, Terran was busy elsewhere, so it was the servant Tamas who boosted Rialla onto her mount. She hadn't paid much attention to him the first day of the trip, but his touch forced his emotions and some of his thoughts onto her, leaving her feeling unclean. It wasn't simple lust he was feeling, but something more bestial—he fed his desire on degradation and pain. Even after she was on the horse, he found a thousand reasons for touching her.
By late that afternoon the sky had darkened, and Winterseine increased the pace to a trot to avoid the threatening storm. The horse Rialla was riding had a trot that threatened to rattle her teeth loose, and what it did to her aching head wasn't pleasant—but the faster speed limited Tamas's fondling, so she felt it was a vast improvement.
They sheltered for the night in a monastery dedicated, ironically enough, to the god of storms. Most of the worshippers of the old gods were confined to a few old temples like this one. It was a primitive fortress made of the dark native stone and rendered even more dismal by the gloominess of the darkened sky.
Several monks came to take their horses, and Rialla dismounted easily enough by throwing one leg in front of her and sliding down her horse's side. She hoped to avoid Tamas's help at all costs.
The storm god disliked women in his sanctuary, but the good monks had built a small outbuilding as a concession to secular parties who needed shelter and would pay the monks generously for the privilege. The hut locked from the outside, so that there was no chance of females wandering into the main buildings and desecrating the temple.
The building was barren and windowless. Rialla supposed that if she'd been a noblewoman, a cot would have been found for her and burned when she left. As it was, she would have to make do with the stone floor. There wasn't much chance to look around before the door was shut, leaving her in the darkness. She heard the unmistakable sound of the wooden board being slipped into place on the door.
Rialla sat on the uneven stone floor and closed her eyes with a sigh of relief that she was alone. She'd feared that Tamas was going to be left to guard her, and she didn't want to spend all night fighting him off.
She wasn't sure the actual moment she realized she wasn't alone in the room, or what first alerted her. Before she had time to panic, she realized that she knew who was here.
"Tris?"
"Mmm?" he answered absently, and the collar jerked around her neck as he began unbuckling it.
"How long have you been here?"
"Not too long. You smell like wet horse." He removed the bands on her arms and Rialla stretched gratefully, almost moaning in the relief of moving her arms freely.
"My favorite scent," she replied.
One of Tris's magelights illuminated the barren little chamber.
"Not exactly cozy," he commented.
"It is clean, which is better than the men's accommodations in the sanctuary are likely to be," she said, patting the stone beside her in invitation.
Instead, Tris sat facing her and took off the pack he carried on his back. He rummaged inside it and then pulled out a checkered board and placed it between them.
It was not as elaborate as the one he had at his cottage, but it was functional and they whiled away the afternoon with several games of Dragon. He won them all, but she managed to make him work for it. After the third game he set it aside with visible reluctance.
"I have to turn out the light now," said Tris. "'Though this building is sturdy, I don't doubt that there are enough holes in the mortar that someone might notice the light coming out. You don't want to try to explain how you managed to produce light in here." He waved his hand and the magelight disappeared.
"I noticed that Winterseine's rat-faced servant was having some difficulty keeping his hands to himself today," Tris commented. "Now, have you thought about giving the little lecher leading your horse a thorough disgust of you? I would think that empathy would prove useful that way."
She laughed, grateful that somehow his remarks had turned Tamas from threatening to absurd. "I'm afraid anything vile I can think up will just excite him more."
"There is that possibility," he agreed in thoughtful tones.
Rialla laughed again and found a more restful position. The silence continued comfortably between them until she began to drift asleep.
"How do you intend to prove Winterseine killed Karsten?" asked Tris abruptly.
She roused herself slightly. "You mentioned that the dagger that killed Karsten disappeared. If I can find it, any decent wizard can tell who used it."
"Who are you trying to convince?" asked Tris.
"What do you mean?" Rialla said. Then she added, "Gods, I never thought of that. What Darranian is going to believe anything a wizard says?"
She thought for a moment then said, "What if I approach it differently? What do you think the regency council's reaction would be if I proved that Winterseine was a mage? It wouldn't prove Laeth's innocence, but I don't think that Winterseine would be allowed to inherit Karsten's lands either. That would leave Lord Jarroh as the most powerful man on the council."
"How are you going to prove that Winterseine is a mage?"
She shook her head, though in the dark he couldn't see her. "I don't know, but I'll find a way."
Tris woke her early in the morning to replace the restraints before someone came in. Just as he finished the last buckle, they heard the bar being removed.
"Tris," hissed Rialla urgently.
He smiled at her and took a step back until he was against the wall, then made an odd gesture and his features blurred and darkened. Rialla watched fascinated as Tris blended into the wall, the stone coloring overshadowing his own. It altered in subtle tones until the shadows hid any sign that he stood there. Tamas opened the door, pulled Rialla up by one arm and escorted her out, oblivious to the observer left in the stone hut.
It was a cold and miserable day, and the horses were spooky because of a stiff wind that brought strange smells uncomfortably close.
Rialla huddled under her cloak and wished vainly that Tamas weren't holding the lead line on her mare.
The sun rose, a dim disk in a gray sky. By the time it had reached the middle of its journey, it was totally obscured by black clouds. When rain began to fall in sheets, the party halted while Terran and Winterseine conferred briefly.
Tamas took advantage of the rest stop to force his horse next to Rialla's.
"I like the pretty ones, the soft ones like you," he said. "Lord Winterseine says if you are not good enough to dance, I can have you before he sends you to his brothel. You wouldn't like it there, but if you pleased me I might keep you."
As he spoke, he rested his hand on her sore leg. Her horse shifted restlessly, dislodging his grip as Rialla's unease communicated itself. Tamas smiled and kneed his horse sideways, following hers.
"Now, what's getting you all upset?" He pressed his hand against the wound again, this time harder.
It hurt, but Rialla knew her face didn't show it. She knew that her lack of expression disappointed him. She also knew that somewhere nearby, Tris was getting very angry.
Lightning flashed, followed a few seconds later by a low rumble. Her horse and Tamas's reacted with similar violence to the sound—aided by a touch of empathically projected fear. The other horses danced and jumped, their herd instinct overwhelming training.
Rialla's horse jerked its lead free of Tamas's loose hold and, free of any constraint, put her head between her front legs and kicked. Rialla leaned back, pushing her feet forward. As the mare's hindquarters fell to the ground and propelled the horse sideways, Rialla shifted her weight appropriately. Her empathy let her know what the horse was going to do a moment before the animal moved.
One of the guards caught the flying lead. His firm grip discouraged Rialla's mount; it gave a few halfhearted hops before settling down.
The courser that Tamas rode was more successful at ridding itself of its rider than Rialla's had been, tossing him into a thicket of thorn apple. When he was extracted from the inch-long thorns at last, his wounds were not limited to punctures and scrapes—his arm hung visibly broken at his side. One of the guardsmen had caught Tamas's horse, and it danced nervously, scattering mud on anything nearby.
Nicely done, commented Tris. I hadn't thought of using the horses.
Thank you, she replied lightly as her horse danced away from Tamas's, dragging the man holding the lead several feet.
As her horse turned another circle, Rialla got a clear view of Tamas flexing the arm that had been clearly broken only a moment before. Ignoring her distaste, she probed him briefly, but the only pain that Tamas was feeling was from the thorns.
Tris, she asked, did you do that?
Do what? he asked.
When Tamas was thrown, he broke his arm. She sent Tris a picture of what Tamas's arm had looked like. Someone healed it. Was that you?
No. There was a pause and then Tris said, I don't think that anyone here can use green magic; we can usually recognize it in each other. I can usually also tell if someone has used green magic recently, but I don't see it here. Human magicians can set a bone, using magic as a splint, but it requires much power. Inefficient magicians, humans. Then he added thoughtfully, Just how strong is this magician of yours?
He trained with the former ae 'Magi, answered Rialla slowly. Can you tell if a human mage has healed Tamas's arm?
A human mage can't heal the arm, explained Tris, he can only set it, like a splint made of magic. He would have to constantly reinforce the spell, and if the magician fell asleep, the magic would cease functioning—unless he used runes, and I could feel those. I can't feel any magic at all now, but the only human magician I've been around was Trenna, the woman who bargained for my service. She was only half-trained; I don't know if I could tell if a human mage was working magic.
Rialla thought about what Tris told her. She wondered why Winterseine would be so concerned with Tamas's broken arm that he would drain his magic and pretend to heal it when there was no one to impress but his servants—it seemed out of character from what she remembered of her master.
Rialla shivered, and speculated uneasily about magic, human and green. What kind of power, she wondered, would the prophet of a god wield?
Chapter Seven
The stone wails of Lord Winterseine's keep loomed darkly over the party of tired riders.
Moonlight glinted off the ivy gathered at the base of the outside walls, lending an eeriness to the hold's appearance.
As they crossed the drawbridge, Rialla glanced down into the dark waters of the moat that surrounded the keep. The moat wasn't as rank as most of its kind; Winterseine had it drained once a year and cleaned of debris so it smelled mainly of algae and rotting plants, rather than less wholesome sewage.
The aged boards of the drawbridge creaked under the weight of the horses. The heavy chains that had been used to lift the bridge in times past had fallen limply into the moat, where they rusted and grew long strings of algae.
The entrance to the keep was adequately defended by the heavy iron portcullis that blocked the entrance. As far as Rialla knew, the ancient drawbridge had not been lifted this century. The keep was small and strategically unimportant, so it had escaped most of the ravages of the Rethian wars. Few robbers were desperate enough to take on the experienced fighters that manned the keep now that the war was over, and Winterseine preferred to avoid the petty bickering and feuding that took up so many landholders' time and resources.
Rialla was unable to repress a shudder as the heavy ironwork of the portcullis dropped behind them, trapping her inside. For a moment she felt a frantic urge to fight against her bonds. She found herself reaching for Tris's reassuring presence; knowing he was nearby made it easier to continue.
They rode directly to the keep entrance, where grooms waited to take the weary horses. While Winterseine and the rest of the party stopped in the entrance hall, one of the guardsmen escorted Rialla down the stone stairway that led to the holding cells. After making sure she had bread, water and straw in the small room, he removed the wrist manacles and left her alone.
Moonlight drifted in through a small window near the ceiling; its deep-set iron bars crossed the pale stone floor—a constant reminder of the room's purpose. The sound of water lapping against rock drifted faintly up from the deep hole underneath the sanitation grate in the far corner of the cell.
Rialla looked around with dawning recognition. She'd been given the same holding cell that she'd had when they brought her here the first time. For confirmation she knelt by the door and ran her fingers over the stone nearby. Her searching fingers found the crude letters scratched in the granite. It was too dark for her to read what was written there, even if some of the scratches hadn't been too faint to see—but she didn't need to read the words.
"Isst vah han onafaetha," she spoke them softly, pronouncing them carefully, as her father had. "Without faith there is nothing."
Until she'd become a slave, they were the only written words she knew, although she had spoken several languages. Her father had worn a gold disk on a chain; inscribed in the disk were those five words, the motto of her clan.
"This was the cell that they put me in the first time," she said without looking up, knowing that Tris was behind her. "How did you come in?"
"Through the wall."
Rialla twisted to look at the solid stone wall. Raising her eyebrows, she looked at Tris.
He shrugged. "Stone is not as easy for me to pass through as wood, but if you know how to ask it is not impossible—just slow."
She nodded and rose to her feet, uncomfortable with her vulnerable position. "I'm glad you came."
"Glad I followed you here, or glad I came to your cell tonight?"
She smiled. "Both actually. I needed to talk to you about Tamas's arm. Can you think of any reason Winterseine would heal it? I don't remember him ever working magic that… casually."
It was difficult to see details in the dark little room, b
ut Rialla saw him lift his arm to his face and knew Tris was rubbing his beard.
"If he were trying to pass himself as a servant of Altis, he might do it to reinforce his position," he said thoughtfully at last.
"In front of a group of guards, a servant and a slave?" questioned Rialla.
"Even so," answered Tris. "If I wanted to know something about a noble, the first people that I would ask would be his servants. If he has declared himself the Voice of Altis, then the people who must believe in his position most fervently are his servants."
Rialla felt something inside her relax with Tris's explanation: facing Winterseine was sufficiently daunting. She would rather not worry about prophets and gods.
"Where did you leave your horse?" she asked, kicking at the straw until it padded a section of floor.
"What horse?" Tris replied.
"You ran?" hazarded Rialla doubtfully, looking at the heavily muscled healer. In her experience, runners weren't built like blacksmiths.
He smiled. "No. In the forest, there are other ways opened to those who know how to use the doors."
"Magic?" asked Rialla, hiding a yawn behind her hand.
"Indeed," he nodded.
* * * *
The sun was just up when a pair of guards came and escorted her to Isslic of Winterseine's unoccupied study. They attached her leash to an elaborate bronze ring set in the wall and left her alone.
She sat on the floor and leaned against the wall. As with the holding cell, she'd been in this room before. When a slave was misbehaving, Winterseine had her brought here to his room for sentencing—but first he made the slave wait.
The sounds of advancing footsteps woke Rialla up from her nap—she had stayed up too late talking with Tris. She was thankful that she awoke before Winterseine had come into the room—the wait was supposed to make her nervous, not sleepy. She didn't want to enrage him pointlessly.
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