"Tris, what are you doing here?" asked Laeth. "Where's Rialla?"
"Somewhere in a Darranian forest, I hope," replied Tris wearily, rubbing the back of his neck. "I need to deliver these," he slipped the books out of his tunic and pulled the dagger from the sheath he normally used to carry his own knife, "to the Spymaster, Ren, then I need to get back to Rialla. Can you help me find him?"
"Why didn't you bring Rialla with you?" queried Marri.
"Winterseine and his son were following us. Rialla thought that she could evade them until I could bring these here; after all the trouble we went to, it would have been a shame to have to return them." Tris knew that it was overly easy to read his concern for Rialla in his voice, but he was too weary to disguise it.
"I could take the package to Ren," offered Laeth.
"That would leave you free to return. If you can describe where you are, I can get some friends together and ride after you with reinforcements."
Tris was tempted, but shook his head. "No. The journal I brought needs explanation. It would take me as long to explain it to you as him—and I can make him believe me. If you can take me to Ren, I'll get this over with."
"Right," said Laeth. "Follow me."
He led the way through the streets to a large building that was probably as old as the city. Centuries of minor additions had made the building look lopsided and disordered. The stone steps inside were worn with the weight of generations of feet. Laeth knocked briskly on a scratched wooden door.
"Go away!" ordered a voice from within firmly. "I filed the report yesterday."
Laeth looked at Tris and shrugged before opening the door and peering in. "It's only me," he said with his head inside the door.
Tris trailed Laeth and Marri into the room. The enclosed space smelled musty, as if it hadn't received fresh air in a long time. Seated behind a desk too large for such a small room, a frail-looking man was running his fingers through his thinning hair.
A second man had been seated comfortably on a padded chair facing the desk, but when he saw a woman enter the room, he came to his feet. Tris knew that his eyes had widened, but he'd never seen a man dressed in such a manner—not even among the more foppish Darranian nobles. The man's expensive leather boots were dyed a hideous shade of orange, contrasting with emerald-green velvet trousers trimmed in orange lace. The man's tunic was also mostly emerald-green, except for the long, flowing orange sleeves. His hair was curled in ringlets that descended to his shoulders in a cascade any woman would have been proud to claim.
"Ah, what a pleasure to be interrupted by such a lovely visitor," he said, stepping forward to kiss Marri's hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Kisrah."
Before anyone had a chance to respond, the man behind the desk, who Tris assumed was the Spymaster, came to his feet as well. "Laeth, I told you that I had someone scouting Winterseine's holdings looking for Rialla. I will tell you when I have news."
"I have news for you, sir," answered Laeth, blithely ignoring the irritation in the Spymaster's voice, even as he deftly pulled Marri behind him and away from Lord Kisrah.
Tris narrowed his eyes at the human peacock. "Lord Kisrah," he said slowly, "the Archmage."
Kisrah bowed formally. "The same."
Ren cleared his throat and took charge. "I am Ren," he announced firmly. "This young idiot is Laeth, sometime Darranian lordling and currently mercenary of Sianim." Somehow Ren managed to make the second title the more imposing.
His voice softened as he continued, "With him is Lady Marri, widow of Lord Karsten of Darran, and soon to be Laeth's bride. Lord Kisrah has done us the courtesy of introducing himself, and I am not sure who you are, sir." He directed the last toward Tris.
"I am Tris," replied the healer. "Sometime healer of Tallonwood, currently messenger for one Rialla, slave turned horse trainer turned spy. I have several things to deliver to the Spymaster of Sianim."
Tris handed Ren the books and pulled Laeth's dagger from the boot sheath he normally used to carry his own knife. "The dagger is the one used to kill Karsten. Rialla and I found it in Winterseine's keep."
Lord Kisrah gestured, and Ren gave him the dagger. The Archmage curled his fingers around the hilt and muttered a phrase. "Winterseine held the pommel when it last killed—but I didn't know Lord Karsten. I'll have to have something of his to confirm he was the man who died. I have to confess, however, I am curious how you expect to get a Darranian court to believe the word of a magician."
"Rialla was confident that Ren was capable of such a feat," replied Tris briskly, "but we found something that might help. The larger book is Winterseine's grimoire, conveniently embossed with his seal—complete except for a few pages of vellum that slid out as we escaped."
Kisrah took the book Tris extended. As soon as he touched it, his casual interest became intense. He held the book for a moment then set it on Ren's desk. "What did you do with those pages?'' The indolent manner that had characterized him until that moment was gone. In its place was the powerful presence that belonged to the ae'Magi.
"They were impregnated with magic to the extent that I was not sure they were safe to touch. When they fell out of the book, I destroyed them, rather than leave them for Winterseine's use."
"Destroyed them? How?" asked Lord Kisrah, his face white and shaken.
"With magic, Lord Kisrah, how else?" Tris's eyebrows rose.
"Ah, well," said Ren, "at least they are not in Winterseine's hands. What is the small book?"
"That," said Tris, "is the most interesting item we retrieved. Rialla says you are concerned about a prophet who is planning to take over our lands."
"The book implicates my uncle?" said Laeth without surprise.
Tris shook his head. "It's the private journal of the Voice of Altis. You would know him better as Terran."
Laeth and Marri looked at Tris in astonishment; the others obviously didn't know who Terran was.
"My cousin Terran?" asked Laeth incredulously.
"Winterseine's son," said Ren.
Lord Kisrah stiffened. "Winterseine's son is not a mage. I was there at his testing."
"No," agreed Tris blandly, "Terran is not a mage, he is a prophet."
"Winterseine's using his magic to allow his son to declare himself a prophet." Ren's disbelief was obvious.
"No," said Tris again, "Terran is a prophet of Altis— at least Rialla and I think so."
"Gods," swore Laeth in a soft tone.
"Yes," agreed Tris. "I think that you'll find Terran's journal most—" He broke off and flinched as a searing pain touched his back.
Laeth gripped his shoulder. "What's wrong?"
Tris shook his head grimly, reaching for Rialla through the bond between them; but he couldn't touch her mind. All that had reached him over the distance was the brief lash of pain.
"I have to get back," he said. "Read the journal… and keep an open mind."
Tris had requested a horse, knowing that it would be faster to ride until he reached the forests. Laeth led him to the stable, and produced a sleek gray gelding.
Urgency replaced fatigue for the first hour that Tris rode, the gelding moving smoothly in a ground-eating trot. Sianim grew distant and was gradually replaced by the farmland that surrounded the city, which in turn gave way to rolling hills as Tris fretted about Rialla. As soon as the last of the farmland fences ended, he left the road.
Though the distance was too great for him to contact Rialla mentally, the bond they shared gave him a direction to follow. If he assumed that her pain meant that she was in Winterseine's hands, then it would take speed on his part to catch them before they returned to the slave trader's hold.
Tris wanted to catch them in the forest, where his powers were at their greatest, instead of the cold stone building that housed Terran's shrine to Altis. He suspected that Rialla was correct; Terran and Winterseine were too powerful to attack directly. However, the forest was his domain, and in the forest there were other methods of combat.
He rode on, until the horse hung its head in exhaustion and he was in little better shape. His connection with Rialla might allow him to locate her, but it required concentration; twice he had to correct his course when fatigue distracted him.
Reluctantly Tris decided that he would have to stop or risk losing his mount and his trail. The decision was made slightly easier when he concluded that, even if he managed to find Rialla, he would be too exhausted to do anything other than surrender out of hand.
Rialla shifted stiffly when Terran untied her hands. The discomfort from her bonds had kept her awake for most of the night. Her hands were numb, and her arms ached despite Terran's gentle chafing.
When she could move her hands, Terran handed her a cup of something hot and spicy that she didn't recognize. It must have had some medicinal property, as she felt considerably better by the time she'd finished drinking it.
When the camp was broken and the horses saddled and packed, Winterseine untied her leash from the tree and secured it to a ring on his saddle.
It took a long time for Rialla to work out the awkwardness from having been tied up all night. The long chase, combined with lack of sleep, was wearing her down. Her weak leg protested the punishment that she'd given it; after midday her scar began to burn from the abuse.
They finally worked through the worst of the underbrush and came to a clearing bisected by a shallow stream, and Winterseine pushed his horse into a trot. Rialla managed to follow for several paces, then her leg cramped. As she fought for balance, the leash around her neck snapped tight and she fell to the ground with punishing force.
Winterseine dragged her several lengths before stopping his horse, adding to the mounting number of bruises and scrapes that covered her. She coughed and choked from the force of the collar on her neck as she fought grimly to straighten her leg out, but the large muscle in her thigh kept it firmly pressed against her chest.
Terran dismounted and placed one knee on her shoulder and both hands on her knee. With his greater leverage he was able to straighten her leg, forcing the muscle to elongate. As her leg stretched out, he slid his knee down until it rested on her hip and began kneading the rigid muscle.
Rialla stared at his long-fingered hands working on her bare thigh and thought of another time they had done the same. She shuddered as revulsion swept through her; tired and in pain, she didn't have the strength to control her thoughts. She twisted violently to the right at the same time her abhorrence hit Terran with the force of a blow.
Terran flinched instinctively, loosing his hold on both her leg and shoulder. Rialla rolled away from him, crying out as her leg snapped back and the muscle cramped again. She twisted and fought, but she couldn't straighten her leg and keep the collar from choking her at the same time.
Winterseine's horse was used to leading slaves who might jerk or fight the leash. But this mad thing writhing on the ground was something else. It snorted uneasily, then reared and fought in earnest as Rialla's barriers dropped, and exposed the animal to her frenzy.
Terran drew his knife and sawed at the tough leather that bound Rialla to the frantic horse. Winterseine managed to keep the horse from bolting, but the leash wasn't long enough for safety. Both Rialla and Terran were within easy reach of the flashing hooves.
Terran had cut most of the way through the strap when a particularly violent tug from either Rialla or the horse snapped it the rest of the way. Prudently, Winterseine let the animal get some distance from Rialla before he tried to calm it down.
Half-strangled and blinded by panic and the matted hair in her face, Rialla fought tenaciously against any attempt on Terran's part to get anywhere near her. Coughing, she rolled on the ground, unable to run because she still couldn't extend her leg.
She was aware of a sharp sound, as if someone clapped his hands, and then she didn't hear anything at all.
Panic and pain woke Tris up from a sound sleep, and he came to his feet before he was fully awake. When he realized that it was Rialla's emotion he was feeling, he called to her, demanding answers, but it was useless.
He swore, once, then collected himself. He was still too far from the heart of the forest; the sylvan ways would be slower than riding.
He tightened the cinch on the saddle and mounted. She was too far from him for his arrival to make any difference to what had happened. It would take him better than half a day to reach her—if she stayed where she was. He touched his calves to the gray's sides, and the gelding leapt gamely into a run.
From somewhere Rialla heard her name being called. Something about the voice made her fight out of the darkness that succored her. Just as she was awake enough to respond, Tris quit calling her.
Her offending leg had subsided to a dull ache that was matched by one in her jaw. She assumed Terran had hit her to calm her down. Her throat ached from the slave collar, making it painful to swallow. Her cheek, shoulder and good leg were abraded from being dragged behind Winterseine's horse, but all things considered, she was in better shape than she deserved for acting like an idiot.
Rialla opened her eyes slowly and sat up, rubbing her sore chin. She couldn't have been out long, because Terran and Winterseine were both still trying to calm down Winterseine's horse. Terran's horse and the pack animal weren't in the clearing.
If she could trust her leg, she could sneak off into the forest and call Terran's mare to her. Mounted, she just might be able to get away. When she started to get to her feet, her thigh muscle cramped warningly, so she subsided. There would be a better time.
When Winterseine's horse stood still at last, foam lathered his flanks and chest, a testimony to the violence of his fight. The gelding held his head low, and his ribs heaved with the effort of breathing.
As soon as he'd gone over the horse to check for injury, Winterseine mounted. "I'll go find your mare and the packhorse; you stay with the slave and see that she doesn't go anywhere."
Terran nodded his head and watched his father ride through the brush. Rialla could have told them that he was riding the wrong way, but she wasn't feeling particularly helpful just now.
When Winterseine was out of sight, Terran walked over to Rialla.
"Are you all right?" he asked, kneeling beside her.
He was too close, and Rialla stiffened slightly, but nodded. Terran started to say something else, but stopped abruptly. He turned her abraded cheek to the sun, where he could see in more clearly.
It occurred to Rialla that she wasn't feeling any pain from the scrapes now, just a warm tingle. She pulled her face out of his hand and looked down at her arm that should have been covered with an abrasion from shoulder to wrist. The wound was still there, but as she watched, it faded rapidly, until the only thing that marred her skin was dirt.
She stared dazedly at her arm, and tried to gather her scattered thoughts.
"How are you doing that?" asked Terran with a touch of excitement in his voice.
Rialla blinked at him stupidly for a moment. "What?"
"This," replied Terran, gripping her wrist and shaking it at her. "How are you healing yourself?"
"I'm not." She shook her head and pulled her arm back out of his grip. It wasn't something that a slave would do, she couldn't tolerate his touch. "I don't know what's going on."
"Father says that you're an empath. What else are you?" Terran asked intensely, leaning forward. "This is magic, but it's nothing I've heard of anyone having the ability to do. What are you?"
Rialla scooted back from him and shook her head, whispering, "I don't know what you're talking about." She decided to take the offensive. After her performance when her leg cramped, Terran was bound to think that she was a few kernels shy of a full measure. So she let her voice become shrill as she continued, "I don't know what you're doing to me."
Rialla needed something to take his attention from her, so she used her gift to find his horse. The mare had stopped at a nearby patch of wheatgrass. Rialla didn't have to work hard to persuade the animal to ret
urn, because the little horse adored her rider. With scarcely any reluctance she left her snack and started back, the pack-horse following her lead.
"I'm not doing anything. It's you. I can feel it, the healing magic in you." There was conviction in his voice and a touch of wonder. "I've heard there are creatures that live in the Northern forests that can heal like that. Are you a shapeshifter?"
Rialla looked at him incredulously. She knew quite well she had no magical abilities. Yet she could feel Terran's sincerity; he knew that she was healing herself. She knew that she wasn't.
Tris could heal, but she couldn't imagine he was stupid enough to do so without making sure than no one else was around. He wouldn't have lasted in Darran if he weren't careful about things like that.
The gray mare trotted unconcernedly into the clearing, followed by the packhorse. She whickered softly when she saw Terran, and thrust her nose against him, rubbing enthusiastically.
Without taking his eyes from Rialla, Terran reached up and rubbed the mare's face. "Good girl," he crooned soothingly.
Rialla pulled her legs up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them. She rested her face against her knees and closed her eyes, shutting Terran out. After a moment she felt him move away. He was only biding his time, but she was thankful anyway.
Tris? she called.
His reply, when it came, was faint, but steady. In it she could feel relief. Are you all right? What happened?
I'm fine. At least I think so. Tris, did you heal me a few minutes ago?
What? he asked. Before Rialla could tell him what had happened, she felt his sudden comprehension followed by a brief flash of guilt.
It's all right, he said. There's nothing to worry about. Do you remember the bond that I formed between us to allow you to communicate with me?
Yes, she answered.
The healing is a result of that bonding.
What? She let him feel her exasperation at his inadequate explanation.
The magic I use is not like that of humans, he explained. Sometimes it requires little initiative to work.
Steal the Dragon Page 24