"They tore up the land and cut down the forests; the spirits of the trees cried out, crippling those tied too closely with earthmagic. They settled the land, driving the little folk underground and forcing us further and further into the forests of the far north, where green magic ruled the strongest. There was not enough room there for all. The earthmasons retreated below ground. The shapeshifters retreated into themselves. The sylvans hid where no one would think to look: among the humans themselves. Only the dryads remained, the few the rape of the land had left. For them came the slavers, and the dryads disappeared into the East.
"When the human wizards began to vie with one another for power and Nevra Forest became the glass desert, the last of the dragonkind vanished in the winds."
Tris allowed his voice to darken dramatically. "But sometimes, empath, among the humans is born the legacy of the dryads. Green-eyed or amber-eyed like their distant kin, these can touch the spirits of the trees and the beasts and the deepest souls of mankind."
Rialla turned and narrowed her clear, green eyes at his gray-green, innocent gaze.
He laughed, unimpressed.
Something that had been nagging at her for a while chose that moment to crystallize.
"Tris?" she asked softly. "In your story you said it was the Wizard's Wars that destroyed the dragons. Is that true?"
"I don't know… not having been there myself. The legends say that dragons are creatures of magic rather than just users of it. The wars disturbed the flow of magic and dragons were no more… or so say the legends."
There was something in his voice that prompted her to ask further, "You don't seem convinced that the legends are true."
"Well, you see," began Tris, starting on her other foot, "I saw a dragon once."
Later that night, Tris stood alone in the darkness of the forest that stood near Winterseine's keep. He leaned his forehead against an oak, but could draw no comfort there, for the oak couldn't change the impulsive action that caused the cold breath of guilt on his conscience.
Chapter Eight
The labyrinth that served as the government building in Sianim was deserted at this hour of the night, but when Ren stepped inside his office, he waited until the door was shut behind him before removing the shade that muted the light from his lantern.
Pushing aside a few books, he cleared space on his desk for the lantern. Before leaving this evening at the usual time, he'd taken the precaution of pulling the heavy curtains across his window so that no one would see the light from the outside. He wasn't really concerned with secrecy or he never would have chosen his office as tonight's meeting place, but it was his nature as well as his profession to keep as much information to himself as possible.
A disturbance in the air currents, and a whiff of sweet perfume informed the Spymaster before he turned around that his visitor was here.
Kisrah ae'Magi, once a minor Rethian lord and now the Archmage, made an impression upon everyone he met. Ren had never actually seen the Archmage before, but he had heard enough about him that he wasn't unduly surprised by the magician's distinctive appearance.
Kisrah's hat was a deep purple that contrasted neatly with the light pink of the long fluffy feather that curled from the hat's brim to his shoulders. The sleeves of his lavender overcoat were heavily embroidered with gold thread, as were his shoes and gloves. A gold-and-amethyst earring pierced his left ear.
He looked young to Ren's jaded eye, too young to hold the power he wielded, but many of the more powerful wizards were that way. Someone less observant than Ren might have dismissed the Archmage as an overdressed fop, overlooking the keen intelligence that lurked in his dark eyes. Lord Kisrah had made good use of his power in the decade he'd been Archmage.
"Lord Kisrah," said Ren in a welcoming tone. "It is most kind of you to agree to come here."
"Spymaster," replied Lord Kisrah with a touch of humor in his voice. "How could I refuse when your invitation was so unique? I had no idea that my mistress's gardener was a Sianim spy until he invited me to meet with you here. Not that I am offended by it. I had begun to worry that you did not deem me important enough to spy upon."
Ren smiled at him, a remarkably open expression on the Spymaster's face. "I do have other spies in your household; otherwise I would have found another method of getting a message to you. The wizards' council would not have called you as ae'Magi if you could be so easily disregarded."
"I am flattered," returned Kisrah, with an answering smile. "I suspect that you had another reason for asking me here."
Ren nodded and gestured Kisrah to a chair that he had cleared of debris earlier in the day. The Archmage ignored the dust and sat, crossing his extended legs at the ankles. Ren pulled his chair out from behind his desk and sat facing Kisrah.
"Are you familiar with what is happening on the other side of the Great Swamp?'' questioned Ren.
Kisrah nodded. "You are not the only one with spies. Unfortunately, I did not become aware of the situation until someone started expending a great deal of magic at the Swamp with the intention of clearing the old road.
"My sources say that there will be an invasionary force through the road by next spring at the latest. There was some thought that the wizards' council should force a confrontation before the road is cleared, but I vetoed it." The magician leaned forward. "I reminded them of the Wizard Wars and the destruction that they caused. Whoever is opening the Swamp is very powerful. A direct attack on him before we know what he is capable of could have disastrous results."
"What do you know of the Eastern magician?" asked Ren.
Lord Kisrah shook his head. "Not much. He claims to be the speaker for one of the old gods and uses religion to ease his conquests."
"Then I might be of some service," offered Ren.
Lord Kisrah leaned back in his chair and said, "How much will it cost?"
"Nothing," answered Ren in slightly affronted tones. "If you can take care of the wizard, you are welcome to all the aid that I can give you."
The Archmage raised his brows in mock astonishment. "This must be a new policy. We'll be paying Sianim for cleaning the Uriah out of the ae'Magi's castle for the next twenty years."
Ren shrugged. "That was different. The Voice of Altis is a threat to us all."
"And Uriah aren't?" muttered the Archmage, but he'd regained his smile. "So, what knowledge do you possess regarding this man?"
"He's from this side of the Swamp," said Ren. "My informants in the East have confirmed it. I didn't contact you then, because I had no idea who it was. Yesterday, though, one of my people returned from a mission in Darran. While he was there, he inadvertently ran across some information indicating that the sorcerer we are looking for might be Lord Winterseine."
"Isslic?" asked Lord Kisrah incredulously, then he nodded his head more thoughtfully. "He is powerful enough in his own right, and I've heard rumors that he dabbled in forbidden magic—the only thing that kept him out of the council was those rumors."
"I had heard"—Ren coughed discreetly: the wizards' council was infamous for its obsession with secrecy— "that if you knew who the renegade wizard was, you, as Archmage, could control him."
"Now, I wonder where you heard that," commented Kisrah, but with no real offense. "I am sorry that in this instance your information is incorrect. The Master Spells might have allowed me to control him, but they have been lost."
Ren drew in his breath in shock. "What?" It had been a long time since someone had managed to shock the Spymaster.
Lord Kisrah shrugged, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes wearily. "In the spellbook of the ae'Magi there are symbols that cannot be redrawn. These are necessary to the spells' castings. After Geoffrey, my predecessor, died," Kisrah's voice echoed with remembered sorrow, "we found the Archmage's spellbook, but someone had been there before us and removed the pages that held the Master Spells."
The Archmage opened his eyes to look at Ren. "It is possible that Isslic, Lord Winterseine, too
k the pages. He was a friend of the late Archmage, and would know where to look."
Ren drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair and swore softly to himself. "What you are saying is that someone else, possibly Winterseine, could cast the Master Spells and hold all the wizards under his power?''
Kisrah shook his head. "No. Not yet, at least. The council holds the method of working the spells in another grimoire. As soon as we found that the symbols were missing, we hid the rest of the spells in a safe place. No one can get to them now without alerting the council. It's been ten years and no one has tried to get to the second book."
"Why not destroy the second part of the spell?" asked Ren softly.
"The spells were developed to keep magicians from each other's throat. Without them, there is no check on the behavior of the mages. I don't think that we need another glass desert," replied Kisrah.
Ren snorted. "I think you magicians exaggerate the importance of the Wizard Wars. It can be more dangerous to have the wrong person command absolute control of all magicians than to have the possibility of a battle between wizards."
" 'You magicians'?" queried the Archmage softy. "Don't you mean 'we magicians'?"
Ren stared at him for a minute, then smiled reluctantly. "So that's why you chose to tell me so much. How did you find out about it?"
Lord Kisrah returned the smile. "Old Aurock used to brag about you. She said that you were one of the few apprentices she'd ever had who knew when to quit. I will see what can be done to confirm Winterseine's involvement. The council will then decide what to do about him. I'll keep you informed."
He was gone with the slight disturbance of air that accompanied magical teleportation. Alone, Ren looked into the shadows in the corner of his office for some time, before he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
* * * *
Rialla lay flat on her back, pretending to be more winded than she was. No one would bother her if they thought she was resting, and she could tap into the emotions around her without worrying that she would be interrupted.
She'd been here long enough that some of the other slaves had made overtures of friendship, though nothing obvious enough that the dancemaster would see: a wink while she listened to the dancemaster's impatient scolding, a hand helping her find a towel to wipe her face in the bathhouse. She'd forgotten how warming such small acts of support could be; she'd wanted fervently to forget everything about slave life.
Though in most respects the classes were not as bad as she had expected, in some ways they were worse. The hardest memory of slavery that Rialla had to bear was not the lack of freedom; it was the lack of desiring freedom.
By the time that Rialla had been a slave for a year, she lived for the dance, and practiced far into the night. She'd known that she owed obedience to any freeman, but among the society of the slaves she'd been special. She'd been the best of the dancers that Isslic owned, and she'd taken pride in it.
Lying on her back with the sweat drying slowly in the heat of summer, Rialla supposed that she owed a debt to Lord Jarroh. If she had not felt his slave's painful death on the night of her escape, she would probably still be dancing in one of Winterseine's clubs. A wry smile twisted her lips: now she was a spy dancing at Winterseine's home estate. The sound of the dancemaster's hands clapping together brought her to her feet before she opened her eyes.
The dancemaster was working one of the standard dances that the slaves would be expected to learn. It was common fare, something that even the Darranian ladies could watch. It was also impressive and, with the right costuming, highly erotic; a useful addition to any slave dancer's repertoire. He'd been teaching sections of it all week; today he called on Sora to dance it from beginning to end.
Sora reminded Rialla more than any of the others of the slave she had been. Like Rialla herself, Sora had the advantage of being tall and willowy, allowing her to appear more graceful. She was very good, and driven to be even better. Her competitiveness drove her to conquer more and more difficult moves as she labored diligently to please her masters.
It made Rialla's skin crawl with unwanted memories. She'd tried to forget that she had been like that: driven to exceed the expectations of her master, to be a good slave. It made her almost physically ill to watch Sora strain for the perfect motion of her hand.
She had been careful not to appear to be a challenge to Sora; the girl didn't need any more encouragement in her effort. Rialla used the dancemaster's permission to go easy on her leg to restrict herself to lesser moves.
Rialla knew the dance already, but she stood with the rest while Sora performed it from beginning to end. The younger slave was good, but not quite quick enough on the turns, and she didn't have the experience to bring out the implicit eroticism.
When Sora was finished, the dancemaster nodded at Rialla. She understood his reasoning for having her dance second. Although Rialla knew the dance, Sora had proven herself the better dancer and would give the others something to strive for.
Rialla began her dance, making sure that her gestures were a touch cruder than Sora's, her moves more hesitant. Because she deliberately held herself back, she was far into the dance before she lost herself to the beat of the drums. She didn't see the blow that knocked her off her feet.
"If," said Lord Winterseine, looking down at her coldly, "I had not seen you dance at my nephew's hold, I just might believe you had lost the talent you had in the seven years you were gone. I might have believed that you were as stiff and unpracticed as you appear. Get up."
Impassively Rialla got to her feet, wiping the blood off her cut lip with one hand, ignoring the sweat that dripped down her temple. She had the sick feeling that she wouldn't like what was coming. She instinctively tightened the barriers that she used to keep out of Tris's mind.
Lord Winterseine strode up to the line of watching slaves and grabbed one of them, pulling her back to Rialla.
"You are valuable," he purred to Rialla. "I won't mar your skin by whipping you—but this one will never be worth much as a dancer." He held out his free hand, and the dancemaster gave Lord Winterseine the staff that he used to keep discipline. The dancemaster's face was as impassive as Rialla's, but she could all but taste his fury. "Just in case you don't believe I'm serious, I think that a little demonstration is in order."
He pushed the girl facedown on the mat and swung the staff. The slave screamed when her ribs collapsed under the blow. Forewarned, Rialla had blocked out most of the girl's pain.
Winterseine turned to the dancemaster. "Take her to the side and wrap her ribs, but I want her here until this one," he patted Rialla gently on her cheek, where the skin was already starting to turn purple, "finishes her dance to my satisfaction. I hope she won't need another demonstration, but it is always better to be certain."
This time there was no question of favoring her bad leg. Rialla knew her master well. She knew that there was a good chance that Winterseine would have the other girl beaten to death no matter how well Rialla danced. So she danced to surpass her best, to keep from living with guilt of the girl's death. If she danced as well as she could and Winterseine still killed the girl, the guilt would be his.
Her spins had the extra snap that separated excellent from merely good. Knowing that what the master wanted from the dance was not just excellence, but arousal, she emphasized the erotic moves—dancing with more fire and less grace. She managed to make the simple practice costume into something much more erotic. The drummer was better than she had thought. He added the last touch of spice that turned the dance from esoteric and airy into something that belonged only in the most private of clubs or bedrooms.
When Rialla stopped dancing, there was silence.
Breathing heavily, she looked at Winterseine, and was reassured by the satisfaction on his face.
"I want her. Father." Terran's rasping voice broke through the silence. Rialla had been so focused on Lord Winterseine, she hadn't seen that his son was with him.
"No," r
eplied Winterseine. "She's been Laeth's slave for who knows how long. You know as well as I do the loyalty that a slave can develop for her owner. I'm not letting her run loose in the keep until I am sure that she is properly retrained."
Terran looked away from Rialla and focused on his father. "I want her," he repeated.
Rialla turned her impassive gaze to Winterseine. A strange expression crossed his face, and it took a moment for her to recognize it as fear. It was such an odd reaction that it distracted her from her distress at having attracted Terran's attention.
Lord Winterseine turned to the dancemaster and said curtly, "See that she is taken to my son's chamber this evening after baths. I'll send a guard to escort her." He turned and left. With a last look at Rialla, Terran did the same.
The dancemaster bowed his head in submission and gestured for Rialla to wait with the others, while he made sure that the injured slave had been properly treated.
Rialla stood where he placed her and closed her shaking hands over her arms, not bothering to wipe off the sweat that crept down her face. There would be more there before the day was done. She had made the dancemaster look bad and hurt one of his students. He was not going to make the rest of the day easy. Rialla tried to forget what would come after that.
When Rialla emerged from the baths, it was Tamas, Winterseine's manservant, who waited for her. The thin silk shift that the bath attendants had given her didn't cover much, and what it did cover was clearly visible through the fine fabric. Seven years a slave had left her largely uncaring about her state of dress or undress, but Tamas made her wish for a blanket to cover herself with.
She kept a bland expression on her face when his hand wrapped around her arm, but the emotions that he was forcing on her by his touch made her ill; so did the thought of what was in store for her.
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