"Your fish is burning" was all the reply Tris made. He pulled his own dinner out of the fire.
Rialla didn't push him. She picked up her fish and began to eat.
Finally Tris threw his fish bones into the fire with a harsh sigh. "I'll be back in four or five days. Don't worry, I can find you. Now, tell me how to locate your Ren."
Rialla hesitated, trying to decide how to describe the ancient maze in which Ren kept his office. At last she said, "I think that it would be easier to tell you how to find Laeth. He should be back by now. Ren is more likely to listen to him then he is to a stranger." She explained where Laeth's apartment was. "If you can't find the apartments, then just ask anyone in the street how to find the Inn of the Lost Pig; the innkeeper is a friend—he'll know where Laeth is."
"I'll find him," he said shortly.
Tris slid under the thornberry branches and returned with the spellbook and its loose pages in one arm and the journal tucked under his belt. Regaining his feet, he walked to the satchel and brought out the dagger. As he bent over, the pages won their freedom at last, sliding out of Winterseine's book to flutter to the ground.
"I don't think that I want to leave those for Winterseine to find," said Tris, giving them a grim look. "Nor am I overanxious to pick them up."
"What about the fire?" asked Rialla.
"It's worth trying," answered Tris.
With the aid of the cooking sticks, Tris lifted the pages and set them into the small camp fire.
For a moment nothing happened, then a hollow boom echoed through the woods, and the flames converged on the parchment sheets, deserting the wood until even the coals were black and cold. Gradually the flames died down and left the pages glowing.
"This could be difficult," commented Tris in an abstract tone.
"Cursed difficult," agreed Rialla, shaken.
Tris turned to grin at her, saying in a theatrical voice, "But I have the most destructive force in nature at my call. Watch and marvel, fair lady."
He hunted diligently under the nearby trees, summoning a magelight to help him. At last he retrieved a wrinkled sacklike ball that he pick up gingerly between two fingers. He carried it back to the dead fire and set it delicately on the still-glowing sheets. In the light emitted by the radiant parchment, Rialla thought the gray ball looked shriveled and harmless.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Spore sack."
Tris used one of the cooking sticks and prodded the leathery sack lightly. Rialla plugged her ears as the ball exploded… with an inaudible puff. She could see fireless smoke escape from the ball and leisurely settle in an ashy mist upon the pages.
Rialla snickered.
Tris ignored her and stared intently at the spore-bearing parchment. The pages' glow began to dim then flow outward, fading as the nearby grass lengthened and flowers bloomed from the magic that was released. Rialla could hear a soft sighing sound as the leaves of the nearby bushes brushed against one another, growing with the magic that human mages had used to saturate two thin sheets of lambskin.
Gradually, darkness regained its hold and the light faded. Tris stood over the dead coals of the fire and called a magelight.
As they watched, a soft breeze danced lightly against their skin and dissolved the buff-colored sheets into minute fragments that scattered in the wind's path, leaving a ring of white mushrooms on the ashes of the fire.
Rialla laughed softly. "The most destructive force in nature, huh? Rot."
Tris grinned. "Exactly."
Chapter Ten
"Tris," said Rialla, as she watched Tris double-check to make sure that he had everything. "I don't know if I've ever thanked you for what you've done. If I don't see you again, I wanted you to know that I've," she gave him an odd smile, as she realized the truth of what she was saying, "enjoyed our association."
He gave her an indecipherable look that faded to humor as he stood up. "If I don't see you again then…" He moved swiftly for one so large and cupped her chin in his hand.
As his words trailed off, Rialla thought about backing away from his light hold. With a mental shrug she decided to enjoy his kiss instead. When he stepped back, his breathing was as unsteady as hers.
He held her gaze and said firmly, "I'll see you in three or four days."
Rialla watched him run until he was lost in the darkness, before starting off on her own. If Terran and Winterseine were so close, she would need to travel through the night to stay ahead of them.
Rather than continuing in the direction that they'd been traveling, Rialla moved directly away from where Tris had indicated Terran and Winterseine were camped.
The path she took led through the thickest undergrowth she could find. Without a trail Rialla was forced to struggle through the interwoven leaves. Branches grabbed at her hair and tripped her when she least expected it. When she rapped her shins against a fallen limb for the fifth time in as many minutes, she reminded herself that she'd chosen this path because it was much more difficult for a rider to get through, and pressed on.
Tris had told her that the ground in this direction was marshy, and twice she was forced to edge around boggy patches that looked like open meadow. She crossed a rock-strewn stream that left her feet wet and cold. By the time morning light began to filter through the trees, she had covered several miles, and the constant awareness of Tris had faded.
As she journeyed, Rialla used the position of stars, and later the sun, to guide her so she traveled in a straight line Terran could not shorten. She walked until she was stumbling with exhaustion, then climbed up into the shelter of a large old apple tree to rest in the late afternoon.
As the sun was setting, Rialla was up and walking again. She tried to contact Tris, but evidently he was now too far away to reach. Twice she found bear tracks, but no sign of Uriah. She would have been more comfortable in the desert of her childhood rather than the temperate and moist climate of southern Darran, but this had its advantages as well. Because of the high rainfall, there were streams scattered all over the gentle hills and valley bottoms.
Knowing that Terran could track her by whatever mysterious process his god allowed, she didn't try to hide her tracks. Instead she waded through mud and crawled under thickets that the men on horseback would have to ride around.
On the afternoon of the second day they found her.
She was drinking from a stream when she heard their horses, and she sat back on her heels to wait for them.
Winterseine spurred his horse to a gallop and pulled it up rearing in front of Rialla. Blank-faced, she focused on the horse's legs, noting absently that its hooves needed to be trimmed and reshod.
Winterseine jumped to the ground and grabbed her by the hair, pulling Rialla roughly to her feet.
"Bitch!" he spat. "Where is it? Where is the book?"
"She can hardly answer while you are shaking her like that, Father," said Terran in mild rebuke.
Isslic dropped her to her knees and grabbed something from his saddle. "Answer me, bitch. Where is the book you stole? Where is the dagger?"
Keeping in mind the part she had decided to play, Rialla answered dully, "He took them."
The whip whistled when it came down on her back. Terran caught his father's hand before he could hit her again.
"She's telling the truth." There was cold certainty in the younger man's voice. "Why don't you ask her to explain before you damage her beyond reclamation? Your temper could cost you a valuable dancer." Without waiting for his father's response, Terran addressed Rialla. "Who took them?"
Rialla eyed Winterseine warily from under her brows. He was all but shaking with rage at Terran's interference.
She kept her voice submissive as she answered, careful to be truthful—it sounded as if Terran could tell if she weren't. "The man who traveled with me, the one Laeth told me would come here. He told me that it was time to leave the hold and go to Sianim—so we did. After a day or so, he said that you were following me—so he left with the
dagger."
"He took the book too?" snapped Winterseine.
Rialla nodded her head.
"How long ago did he leave?" The slave trainer's voice was tight.
"Two days," Rialla said evenly.
"This man you were with," asked Terran, his voice soft, "was he a magician?"
"Yes."
"What was his name?"
"He named himself Sylvan."
"After the forest-folk?" said Terran, sounding momentarily intrigued. "Father, do you know of such a mage?"
Winterseine shook his head. "I doubt he was using his true name."
Terran turned back to Rialla. "How did he find the dagger?"
"He spent several days searching before he accidently bumped the book you hid it in," Rialla replied. "He disguised himself as a woodcraftsman. He'd learned the trade in his youth."
"Why did you escape with him? I would have thought that you knew better than that by now." It was Winterseine's question.
Rialla tilted her head and spoke in the tones of one stating the obvious. "He said it was time to go. Laeth is waiting for me in Sianim."
"Don't you understand, Father? She wasn't escaping. Laeth is still technically her owner. He told her to obey this Sylvan. It isn't up to her to question his orders." Terran petted her cheek with the same affection a man might show a dog. "She's a good girl—aren't you?"
Rialla remained impassive though anxiety coursed through her—was that sarcasm that she heard in Terran's voice? It was hard for her to decipher from his tone alone, but she didn't dare look up at his face.
"Just because you slept with her is no sign that she is telling the truth," snapped Winterseine impatiently.
"Father," said Terran slowly, without the deference that Rialla was used to hearing from him, "just because my magic works differently than yours does not make it weak. I can tell truth from falsehood." His voice took on undercurrents that were meant for Winterseine alone. "If you choose to forget my capabilities, that is your problem."
"I don't understand what you mean." Winterseine's voice was full of innocent affront as false as a glass ruby.
"Of course not. Just remember that without me, your chances of become King of Darran are minimal at best. Especially if the dagger should arrive in Sianim." Cold menace laced Terran's speech. Rialla kept her head lowered.
"I think that we understand each other," commented Winterseine coolly, as he slipped the heavy leather collar around Rialla's neck again and tugged her to her feet. When he touched her, Rialla felt his fear… and hatred. "Shall we head back?"
There was no horse for Rialla to ride; their pack-horse was heavily laden with supplies. Instead, she walked briskly beside Winterseine's mount. The ground was rough, and the horse could travel no faster than she. It picked the easiest path through the brush and left Rialla to fight her way through as best she could.
That evening they stopped beside a stream and ate camp fare from the packs the spare horse carried. The stew was unseasoned, but might have tasted better without the tight knot in Rialla's stomach.
After they'd eaten, Terran filled a small earthenware bowl with water from the stream. He knelt beside the bowl and nicked his thumb with his knife, letting a few drops of blood spill into the bowl. With the bowl in his hands, he sat cross-legged with his eyes closed.
While he meditated or prayed, Rialla finished washing the dishes from dinner and repacked them. Winterseine tied Rialla's arms tightly behind her and attached her leash to a tree. He unrolled his bedroll and closed his eyes.
Rialla was too uncomfortable to sleep, so she laid her cheek against the rough bark of the tree and watched Terran without interest. The setting sun still gave enough light that she could see him clearly.
She shifted awkwardly, trying to ease the discomfort of her arms, and wished that Tris were around to untie her. She was familiar enough with the whip to know that Winterseine's blow had only raised a welt, but it was rubbing painfully against the tree.
A weird cry reverberated eerily through the darkness and was answered almost immediately from the other side of their camp. Rialla jerked reflexively against the ropes that held her helpless as yet a third Uriah sounded from somewhere just behind and to her left.
She stared intently at a moving shadow in the nearby bushes, gradually becoming aware of other forms that surrounded the camp. She realized she'd been smelling them for a while, but had been too tired to realize it. Tris was right; they smelled like rotting corpses.
As she watched, they crept closer, mute now. This was a much larger group than the one she and Tris had found. She could count twenty easily, and suspected that there were more lurking in the shadows.
Winterseine had come to his feet at the first cry. He stood between Rialla and the small camp fire, so she saw him only as a shadowed figure that slowly pivoted until he'd looked all the way around.
Terran set the bowl aside and rose to his full height. He seemed relaxed and unworried. "It's all right," he said. "They have come because they know who I am."
When he spoke, the creatures quit moving. If Rialla hadn't been watching them before, she wouldn't have been able to pick out where the Uriah stood in the darkness.
"Poor things," Terran commented in a conversational tone. "The first Uriah were made before the Wizard Wars, and the black secrets of their making should have died with the last of the Great Ones. But Geoffrey ae'Magi had to play with the twisted magic once again. His perversion of magic was what awakened the old gods." Terran shook his head. "The purpose of having an ae'Magi, an Archmage, was to prevent such forbidden magic; obviously it hasn't worked."
Terran waved his hand vaguely at the Uriah. "This is the reason, Father, that Altis must conquer the West. Magic is too powerful a force for humans to wield unchecked."
Rialla thought that Winterseine's silhouette stiffened, but she couldn't be certain.
The Uriah began to move again, closing in on the small camp. The horses shifted nervously and began tugging at the ropes that held them—so did Rialla.
"Poor things," said Terran again and held both hands over his head, palms facing outward. "Listen!" His voice became that of the prophet of Altis, echoing oddly in the trees. At his first word the Uriah halted their slow advance. If her hands had been free, Rialla could have reached out and touched the one nearest to her—not that she had any desire to do so.
"Hear me, Altis, Lord of the Night. Release these thy children. Release them, Altis. They suffer for another's sin."
The Uriah began to make a whispering noise, over and over again. The hair on the back of Rialla's neck prickled as she listened closely to the nearest Uriah.
It spoke, but not in Darranian. In the Common tongue, it whispered, "please," over and over again. Rialla looked at it closely, and saw that it wore the remains of the uniform of one of the Sianim guard units. Shock rippled through her as she realized that it must have once been human.
Rialla was no magician, but even she felt the power in Terran's voice as he shouted, "Release them, now!"
Slowly at first, then all at once, the Uriah fell to lie on the ground. Rialla kept her gaze on the Uriah nearest her. As she watched, the thing's body twisted and changed until she was looking at the corpse of a human in a state of advanced decomposition.
It lay still where it fell, without breathing.
Winterseine looked around at the corpses and then said, "We'll have to move camp. I don't know about you, but I can't sleep with this smell."
Rialla stared at the dead body that lay beside her. Uriah were said to be virtually immune to magic, and Terran had just killed at least thirty of the thrice-cursed things.
She didn't know how strong Tris was, but she didn't think that any kind of magic, human or otherwise, was going to be able to defeat Winterseine's son. If she didn't escape before Tris returned, there would be a confrontation that she and her healer would lose.
Tris couldn't use the sylvan path to travel the whole way; the magic was draining and less eff
ective as the yew and oak forest gave way to willow and birch. Still, in less than two days, he reached sight of Sianim— considerably faster than a human would have.
In the center of a large valley rose a steep-sided plateau with a single narrow, walled path leading upward to the city. The path was crowded at this time of the day, and Tris was forced to dawdle slowly behind a train of donkeys.
The noise from the city was deafening after the quiet forest. Tris followed the donkeys to the center of Sianim, where the markets were, then he tried to find someone with whom he could communicate. Living in Darren most of his life, he spoke Sylvan, Darranian and only a smattering of Common: a combination of gesture and slang that merchants had developed and the Sianim mercenaries had made their own. He'd hoped to find someone who could speak Darranian. but he had to make do with his poor Common.
He gave up trying to find Laeth's apartment, but the Lost Pig was easier. When three or four people pointed to one of the winding streets that Sianim was inflicted with, Tris started down it.
After a short walk, Tris found a building with heavy rusting chains attached to all four corners. As the large sign in front of the building had an orange pig rolling its eye slyly, Tris assumed that this was the place he was looking for.
He stepped inside, and almost retreated at the press of noisy people. On the far side of the room, a sultry woman slid through a doorway bearing a tray filled with brimming mugs. Surmising that the innkeeper would also be behind the doorway, Tris began to work his way through the room.
He was only partially through the tavern when someone caught at his sleeve. He spun around to see a man in leather armor pointing mutely to the far end of a long table.
Tris's gaze followed the gesture, to discover Laeth and Marri trying to push their way through the crowded pathway. Laeth was trying to say something, but the noise in the room prevented any sound from carrying even such a short distance.
When the two managed to make it to where Tris waited, he started back to the main door. Only when they were outside did anyone try to talk.
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