Steal the Dragon

by Patricia Briggs

  She thought about the implications of what he'd said. Do you mean that some of your magic decided to heal a few scrapes and bruises in front of Terran, without any action from you—and it could do it again and neither you nor I could do anything about it?

  Some of her feelings must have made it through to Tris, because when he answered her it was with a strong burst of reassurance. I should have warned you that this would happen, but I didn't expect it quite so soon. I can control the healing; I wasn't aware I needed to.

  You knew that this would happen ? What do you mean ? What else should I expect? Rialla didn't know exactly what she was feeling—some combination of anger and bewilderment.

  Again she felt a touch of guilt from Tris. I should have told you before. I'm sorry. I suspect that now is not the time to go into it, but when we get through with this mess, I'll sit down and explain what's been going on.

  Rialla opened her eyes to see Terran watching her intently. She reburied her face in her knees and said, This had better be quite an explanation.

  Without looking at Terran again, Rialla sat back and began to work her weak leg. Tris's magic had taken care of her cramping muscle, but she needed to occupy herself with something in the face of Terran's steady regard. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew she was communicating with someone.

  Winterseine finally returned, looking harried. When he saw that the horses had returned on their own, he didn't look any happier.

  "Stupid beasts," he commented sourly, swinging off his horse with athletic grace. "We might as well spend the night here. There's a storm coming in, and we won't make the keep before nightfall."

  Rialla hadn't realized that they were so close.

  While Terran occupied himself with lighting a fire and starting another traveler's stew from dried meat, Winterseine unpacked the horses and staked them out nearby.

  Since no one seemed to be paying particular attention to her, Rialla decided to make use of the creek. She took off her shoes before walking into the stream, clothes and all.

  Shuddering at the cold, she sat down in the knee-high water and scrubbed off the dirt and sweat she'd acquired over the days of frantic travel through the forest. By the time she was finished, she was numb with cold, but blessedly clean. It was still warm enough out that her clothes should dry before she had to sleep in them—although judging by the black clouds overhead, it would probably rain tonight anyway.

  She got out and began squeezing the water from her tunic as best she could without disrobing. She suspected the fabric was permanently stained, but at least it didn't stink anymore.

  "Rialla."

  Warily, she turned to look at Terran where he stood near the small camp fire. Winterseine was some distance away, picketing the horses.

  "There's some wild onion to your left. Would you pick it for me? If you see anything else that'll add some flavor to the stew, get it as well."

  Relieved, Rialla knelt to do as he asked. The onion was easy enough to see, once it had been pointed out to her. She wasn't fond of it, but she harvested it until she had a double handful. She looked around for anything else that looked edible and noticed a familiar plant growing in the shade of a small bush.

  Sliding over to it, she examined it carefully. It looked like the plant Tris had called whitecowl. Whitecowl, she remembered, was a sleeping draft. She hesitated, but the thought of arriving at Winterseine's hold tomorrow gave her courage.

  Rialla didn't know how much to use, so she gathered all the leaves from the plant. The leaves would be obvious next to the onions, but she found some dandelions nearby. Torn off the plant, the two leaves looked similar enough that Rialla couldn't tell the difference.

  She took all of the plants to the stream and washed them off carefully before taking them to the pot of stew and dumping them in. Terran thanked her with a nod and continued stirring.

  Rialla moved as far away as she dared before finding a likely stump. She sat down and then finger-combed her hair until she could braid it back out of her face. She didn't have anything to tie it with, but hoped it would be a while before it came undone again.

  The dampness of her clothes made it seem colder than it was; the wind was stirring with the oncoming storm. However, the shiver that caused her to wrap her arms around herself was caused by anxiety more than cold. She could only hope that the whitecowl didn't do anything distinctive when it was boiled—like turn red and stink.

  The sky was darkening rapidly with evening and signs of the summer storm. By the time Terran called them over to eat, it was nearly dark and the wind had picked up speed.

  Rialla examined the stew carefully, but she couldn't see anything wrong with it. She smelled it unobtrusively, but it only smelled like wild onions and salted meat. The deepening shadows and Rialla's distant perch made it easy for her to pretend to eat while surreptitiously dumping the stew to the ground.

  When everyone was through eating, Rialla gathered the dishes and the pot and carried them to the stream to wash. She took her time, hoping that the others would fall asleep before Winterseine tied her up for the night.

  When she turned back to the fire, the small hope that had been steadily growing in her dissipated. Clearly outlined against the fire, Winterseine sat comfortably on a large rock, tossing his knife hilt over blade into the air, then catching it and sending it spinning again. In the distance Rialla heard a rumble of thunder.

  Rialla walked slowly to the packs that Winterseine had removed from the horses and put the bowls and the pot away. Hoping nothing showed in her face, she returned to the fire.

  "Slave girl," purred Winterseine softly.

  She raised her eyes to him in mute question, distrusting the satisfaction in his voice.

  "Magicians use a lot of herbs in their spells. Did you know that?" He smiled at her.

  Rialla's stomach knotted, but she kept her face blank as she shook her head.

  "Whitecowl has a distinctive taste, almost minty. The onions were a nice touch. I almost didn't catch the flavor of the whitecowl in time. Terran didn't." Winterseine nodded across the fire.

  Rialla looked where he'd indicated and saw for the first time that Terran was lying on his side—clearly asleep.

  "But then he's not a magician. I need to thank you, slave girl." Winterseine's voice drew her attention back to him. "I have been trying for some time to get Terran in just such a position. My poor Tamas is caught up in this Altis cult my son started; I knew it was useless to ask him to poison Terran as he did my nephew Karsten."

  Up went the knife in a glittering twisting motion, then back to rest in the deft hands of the magician. Lightning cracked across the sky as the evening storm grew nearer.

  "I am afraid that Terran has forgotten that others have ambitions as well," continued Winterseine. "He is so caught up in his own myth he forgets more mundane issues." He shook his head sadly. "He was angry that I killed Karsten. He hoped I would give up when the swamp beast failed."

  "But the diversion worked, and Karsten died," commented Rialla.

  Winterseine laughed. "It was supposed to kill Karsten, not act as a diversion. I had a geas laid upon it—but the geas couldn't force it away from an empath. Somehow Terran learned of my plans. I didn't realize why he insisted on bringing a half-trained slave to Karsten's celebration—not until the creature attacked you that night. She was an empath too. After she killed herself, Terran must have remembered that you used to be an empath and decided to use you to break the geas instead." Winterseine's voice had gotten quieter with the force of his rage. "He thought that I would not kill if I had to do it with my own hands. Foolish of him. How does he think that my father died… a hunting accident?"

  Winterseine was talking more to himself than to Rialla. She hoped that he would get distracted enough for her to run. In the darkness she could hide from him for a long time.

  "After Terran dies," continued Winterseine thoughtfully, "I think I shall send Tamas to Sianim to poison my nephew Laeth. Lord Jarroh might a
lso be a problem, but one of his servants has done jobs for me before—another one will be no trouble." Winterseine smiled with pleasure, and a chill crept up Rialla's spine. She was too far away to touch the madness she had felt lurking underneath his surface, but she could see it clearly in the eyes of the man who talked so casually about murdering his own son.

  "Cerric, our little-boy king, doesn't have any legitimate male heirs. After ten years or so of acting as his regent, I will have accustomed Darran to my rule, and when Cerric dies I will be the logical choice to replace him—after all, my bloodlines are tied with the royal house. But perhaps it would be better if Cerric just goes mad, and needs to be locked up for life; I'll take things as they come."

  Winterseine paused and held the knife still for a moment before sending it spinning into the dirt near Terran's head. It landed with a thump, burying itself halfway up the blade in the dirt. He shifted his gaze from his sleeping son to Rialla. She took an involuntary step back and he smiled again, slipping a pouch off his belt.

  "I was worried about killing Terran. I trust that you've heard the stories he tells about the coming of the old gods?'' He paused to give her time to answer, but seemed unconcerned about her lack of response.

  "Unfortunately, the stories are true. Terran does seem to have some sort of tie with the god Altis. When it first began, I thought that it would be good to have my son with so much power." Winterseine shook his head. "But I can't let him do as he intends. I spent the most productive years of my life bowing to the ae'Magi. When he died, I stole the key to the Master Spells so that I would not have to do that again—now I have to bow to Terran's control. Terran's!" Winterseine spat the name out with outrage, but regained control of himself and said calmly, "I have discovered that although Altis grants my son power, he does not always watch over him. This…" Winterseine showed Rialla a silver ring that he wore, the one she and Tris had found in a hollow book while they were searching the study. "This allows me to know when my son is watched by his god. As at this moment he is not.

  "If I were to kill Terran myself, as I did Karsten, Altis would destroy me—finding who wielded the knife or potion would be child's play even to a hedgewitch. But I have another way." As he spoke, Winterseine opened the pouch and removed four neat bundles of cloth. These he unfolded. There was something inside each bundle, but the darkness kept Rialla from seeing exactly what it was. Winterseine combined the substances until he held only one cloth square in his hand.

  "I will, of course, be devastated at the death of my only son. It seems that we went out chasing a runaway slave and she knifed him while he slept—I warned him that she was subject to such fits. I, his grieving father, destroyed the slave—but vengeance is no substitute for a lost child." His voice was sad, belied by the wide smile on his face. He said something in a language that Rialla didn't understand and then blew the contents of his cloth in her direction.

  "Take the knife, and kill him with it." Winterseine's tone was cold and harsh, demanding instant response.

  Rialla took a step toward Terran, then stopped. She bit her lip in an effort to resist Winterseine's command.

  "Take the knife and kill Terran with it," repeated Winterseine, adding a hand gesture.

  Two steps more, and her hand closed firmly on the warm haft of the knife. It felt heavy in her hand, as if it weighed more than any knife should. She tried to drop it, but her fingers merely tightened their grip.

  "Kill him." She couldn't see Winterseine now; her gaze was focused on Terran's face, but she felt the demand and raised her knife. Hoping that Tris was near enough to hear, she called out to him silently.

  Rialla? In the time it took her to kneel beside Terran, Tris was able to grasp what was happening and… Rialla felt a surge of strength.

  She stumbled to her feet and took a step back from the sleeping prophet. She tossed the knife into the fire and turned to see Winterseine rush to his feet, his face a mask of rage.

  "Who are you, slave girl?" Unknowingly, he paraphrased his son's question from early that day.

  She gave him a gentle smile. "I am Rialla, horse trainer of Sianim."

  Chapter Eleven

  "A horse trainer?" questioned Winterseine, smiling. "Well, who would have thought it? Leath brought a Sianim spy with him to his brother's castle."

  "As you are contemplating the murder of your son, I don't think you have the purity of soul to pass judgment," commented Rialla dryly as the rain began to fall.

  "Ah, my dear," Winterseine said, shaking his head sadly as he picked up a nearby stick and used it to knock the knife out of the fire. "Familial elimination is an old Darranian art form. Spying, on the other hand, is a betrayal that is much more difficult to overlook. Ah well, with you dead, there is no way to prove Laeth's espionage activities—and I need you dead." As he spoke, he made a faint motion with his hand and the compulsion to pick up the knife returned.

  With Tris to strengthen her, Rialla didn't even sway. Winterseine's lips tightened with annoyance. "When did you become a magician, slave?"

  The power that Tris had poured into Rialla to let her escape Winterseine's spell was as effective as a drug— and as dangerous. Even as she warned herself to be cautious, a smile stretched its way across her face and she heard herself answer, "As I said earlier, though perhaps you did not hear, I am not a slave. I have not been one for a very long time."

  She touched her cheek with her hand. With magic-heightened senses she could feel the scar where she'd sliced her cheek, despite Tris's spell. Almost without thought, she strove to dismiss the magic that marked her as Winterseine's possession.

  Lightning illuminated the dark forest momentarily, followed soon after by the reverberation of its accompanying thunder.

  * * * *

  As soon as Rialla sought his help resisting Winterseine's spell, Tris slid off the horse. He pulled the bridle and saddle off, setting the animal free to go or stay as it would.

  He knew he wasn't going to find Rialla in time to help her directly; the bond would have to serve them. He wasn't sure how much he could help her over such a distance, but there was green magic in the storm that had awakened in the night. Tris drew it to him ruthlessly, ignoring the rains that began to pour from the heavens.

  He thought only to keep Rialla out of Winterseine's control; he hadn't considered the possibility that she could use the magic that he gave her. When she began to dispel his illusion, Tris stepped in delicately to guide her manipulation.

  This way, he said. It doesn't waste so much magic.

  Rialla accepted his help gratefully. The kidskin fell into her hand, the shadow of the tattoo fading away, but Tris's magic, under her control, had chosen to do more than that. Under her fingers her cheek was smooth, without scar or blemish. Her smile widened as she met Winterseine's gaze fully.

  "I'm neither slave nor magician." She took a step closer and gripped his left hand firmly in her right. "Have you forgotten? I am an empath."

  The unexpectedness of her move kept Winterseine momentarily motionless, and then it was too late. Rialla caught him in a maelstrom of emotion.

  This time there was no room full of people for her to draw upon, only Winterseine himself. She ignored her instinctive revulsion and sought the faint trails of destructive emotion that he kept hidden from himself in the far recesses of his mind. She ignored the rage that had more than a touch of insanity in it: it would merely strengthen him. She found instead all the fears that had been growing since his son had discovered that the god of night still lived.

  She took his fear, strengthened it with doubt, and pulled it closer to his conscious mind…

  Winterseine ripped himself free of her hold. She could see the sweat that stained his shirt in the light of the fire.

  "Bitch," he said. His left arm, the one she'd touched, hung limply at his side—a reflex only; she had done him no physical harm.

  He motioned sharply with his right hand. This time the hand motion was no arcane move. She saw the flash of silver a
nd dodged to the side.

  Rialla had trained almost obsessively at Sianim, struggling to rebuild her confidence. The knife Winterseine had produced from a hidden sheath on his arm merely slipped across the skin of her upper arm before landing in the dirt behind her.

  Resting her weight lightly on the balls of her feet, she flexed her knees slightly, looking for the opening that would allow her to touch him again. Not over his clothing—that would diminish the effect; she needed to touch him skin to skin.

  Already the terror that she'd pulled to the surface of Winterseine's thoughts was receding as the slave master replaced it with rage. Though she couldn't feel his anger, she could see it in his face.

  Careful, warned Tris without disturbing her concentration. He's getting ready for something. Can you feel the magic he's amassing?

  Winterseine smiled and stretched his right hand toward her. He made a grasping motion, and Rialla felt pain explode in her chest. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. Tris's warmth spread slowly across her chest, and with it the ability to breathe, though the incapacitating pain remained:

  Rain began to fall, pounding the ground with the force of its descent.

  Winterseine had stepped closer. Rialla rolled, extending her arm; she touched his boot for an instant before he stepped away. In that moment she took the ache in her chest, and Tris's empathetic pain, and thrust them at Winterseine. Even through the heavy leather, the contact broke his concentration and Rialla's agony faded.

  Rialla rolled to her feet, panting with the triple effect of her own pain, Winterseine's and Tris's. The hurt faded rapidly. Without Winterseine's magic to interfere, Tris quickly repaired the slight damage that had been done.

  "There is magic in you," accused Winterseine. "I felt it."

  In the few naked moments she had touched Winterseine, she'd discovered the fear that haunted him. The moment had come to take advantage of it.

  Rialla shook her head and then slanted a glance at Terran, ensuring that the slave master saw the adoring expression with which she regarded his son. In a soft voice she said, "No. It is in him."