Steal the Dragon

9

As soon as they entered the shelter of the woods, Tris dropped the heavy leather satchel to the ground and began to sort through its contents with brisk efficiency, setting most of the tools aside.

“Do you have the journal?” asked Rialla hopefully.

“In the bag,” he answered, loosening his belt and removing the book.

He took off the leather apron and set the dagger in the bag with the two books.

“Hold a moment.” Rialla tore a strip off the bottom of her tunic and retrieved the dagger. She wrapped the blade in the cloth, leaving no edge showing, and replaced it.

Tris quickly gathered the discarded tools together and wrapped the apron around them to protect them from the weather. Someone would find them and put them to good use.

Throwing the satchel’s strap around one shoulder, Tris diverged from the trail at a steady lope. Rialla followed, grateful for the long hours of work that would lend her stamina for the run ahead.

Tris ran effortlessly, obviously slowing his pace for her. The path he chose seemed random, but she was content to follow his lead. He gauged her endurance nicely; when her bad leg started to hurt, he slowed to a walk.

“Can you tell if there is anyone following us?”

“Let me stop a bit and I’ll see,” replied Rialla, coming to a halt.

Breathing deeply, she wiped a trail of sweat off her forehead. Starting with the area nearest to them, she felt carefully outward. It was difficult to tell animal emotions from human, so she looked for a group of creatures; but she couldn’t sense anything.

“Nothing,” she said, hoping that it were true.

Tris stretched out a hand and caressed the bark of a nearby tree before starting off again at a brisk walk in the direction he’d been taking. “It feels good to be out of that cursed place. It is irksome to be surrounded by nothing but dead stone.”

Rialla spoke hesitantly, casual conversation seeming odd after the past few days. “I know what you mean. I grew up traveling from place to place. We only slept in tents when it was raining. Sometimes being hemmed in by stone walls is enough to make me want to scream.”

“Why do you live in the city then?” he asked.

“Because Sianim was the first place I found where a woman can work training horses.”

“Why didn’t you go back to the Trader clans after you got away?”

Rialla shrugged. “There was no one left of my clan. One of the others would have adopted me, I suppose, but… I wouldn’t have fit in.” In truth, she thought, she felt closer to Tris after less than three se’ennights than she did to anyone, including Laeth. Perhaps it was the mental bond: her eyes trailed over to her companion’s broad shoulders and she smiled to herself—perhaps it was something else.

“Tris?” asked Rialla.

“Hmm?”

“Where are we going?”

Something caught his attention near a thick growth of cattails along the stream they had been following. He stopped and knelt to gently brush the soil away from the roots of a slender plant with a small white bloom.

“Whitecowl,” he explained absently, uprooting the plant and shaking loose the clinging dirt. “Makes a potent sleeping draft. A few of these leaves will make a man sleep for several hours.”

He pulled the satchel forward, tucking the plant carefully on top of the books.

He started on again and said, “Sianim.”

By that time Rialla had almost forgotten what she’d asked, and it took her a second to realize what he’d said. “How do you know where Sianim is? Have you been there before?”

He shook his head and said, “No, but I can tell where the forest is cut by a great road. According to the cook, the only major road nearby leads east to Sianim or south into the Alliance. The road is about two and a half days’ journey from here. I thought we could lose any pursuit in the woods before we get there.” He flashed his teeth at her. “There are a number of advantages that we sylvans have over you humans.”

Rialla bared her teeth in return. “Better to be human than to travel through the forest socializing with the local flora.”

He shook his head in mock dismay and said in sad tones, “Always, they disparage what they have never done. Cavorting in the bushes can be an interesting experience with the right person.” He leered suggestively at her, but ruined the effect when he caught sight of another plant. “Coralis!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never heard of one growing this far north.”

Rialla had just started to feel uncomfortable with the gentle flirting they’d been doing when the plant distracted Tris from the conversation. She grinned as he bent to inspect the bark of a small tree with remarkably large blood-red flowers. It was not flattering to be ignored for a plant.

Sorry, he apologized, looking up.

Startled, Rialla met his gaze. “Can you read my mind all the time?” she asked. Abruptly she felt some sympathy with Laeth; it was an unsettling feeling to realize her thoughts weren’t private.

He shook his head as he straightened. “No. Only here and there, and then usually just superficial thoughts.”

She smiled at him as they took to the trail again. “I’m not used to having anyone read me the way I read everyone else.”

He returned her smile and started to say something, but then was distracted by another plant.

They traveled rapidly, in spite of frequent pauses while Tris examined the surrounding flora—which coincidentally allowed Rialla to rest. Mountains lay to the south and west of them, but their route wove through the foothills. After several miles passed without sign of pursuit, Rialla relaxed and enjoyed the feeling of being out of Winterseine’s keep. Tris managed to gather quite a few edible plants, and they nibbled as they walked.

Night fell, and they made camp in a small clearing. Rialla found a small area with relatively few rocks and cushioned her head on her arms, while Tris did the same nearby.

The air was summer-warm, but Rialla’s slave tunic did little to protect her from the night breeze. After the past few days, however, fatigue more than outweighed the discomfort. She was too tired to do more than shiver once or twice before she fell asleep.

Tris watched as she tossed and turned, but when she drew up her legs in a vain attempt to conserve her warmth he’d had enough. He shifted until he was lying next to her, and reached out to pull her closer.

Before he could do more than touch her shoulder, he felt… Terran’s fine-boned hands on naked skin… distaste so strong it amounted to horror… humiliation… hatred, and a touch of terror…

Possessive anger engulfed him, even as he recognized that the bond between them now involved more than mindspeech—at least on his part. For the first time, it was Rialla’s emotions that were clearest—a bleeding of her gifts into him. Carefully he damped the edges of his anger. He would get Rialla to Sianim; then perhaps he would provide Terran with an appreciation for the rage of a healer.

Rialla whimpered softly in her sleep. Tris exhaled. When he had the control that he needed, he eased himself back into Rialla’s dream.

He caught her gently in his thoughts, luring her from Terran’s bedroom to sweeter memories of a northern lake that shimmered silver and gold with the reflected glory of the setting sun.

Alone as usual, Rialla woke early, in the darkness that preceded the sun’s rise in the sky. Standing up, she shook out her clothing, though most of the wrinkles and dirt resisted her efforts. She took a deep breath and wondered why she half expected to smell the crispness of snow in the air. Tris’s return distracted her from her thoughts, and she bade him good morning.

They left the meadow as dawn’s first light broke in the sky. By midmorning Rialla was starting to feel hungry, and when she saw a blackberry patch she stopped to pick some. Tris found several tuberous roots that he cleaned on his pant leg. They had no flavor to speak of, but they were more filling than the berries.

“These are much better roasted over a fire,” he commented, taking a second bite of the root.

“If you say so,” responded Rialla doubtfully, though she was eating hers with the enthusiasm of hunger. “Any taste would be an improvement, I suppose, even ashes from the fire.”

Tris was about to reply when an eerie scream cut through the woods. After it was through, there was utter silence; not even a bird ventured to chirp.

“Do you know what that was?” asked Tris quietly.

“I’m not sure, but aren’t we near the ae’Magi’s castle?”

Tris hesitated, as if consulting an inner map. “There’s a large castle of some sort a half day’s walk to the south,” he commented.

Rialla nodded. “That should be it. It must be a Uriah. I’ve never seen one myself, but there are supposed to be a few left near the Archmage’s castle. When the previous ae’Magi died, there was an infestation of Uriah there that spread into the surrounding lands. Sianim mercenaries cleaned them out of the castle, but they couldn’t find all the ones in the nearby woods. I’ve been told that magic doesn’t affect them much; the only way to kill them is with fire or sword. I don’t even have my knife.”

Tris took Rialla’s arm and began walking briskly. “Vicious things, or so I’ve heard. I saw one once, at a distance, and was lucky enough that it didn’t see me. That one didn’t sound too close, but I suspect that it might be a good idea if we covered some ground all the same.”

They walked and then jogged, but the Uriah kept on a path just parallel to theirs, and they heard it call out from time to time.

“Do you think that it’s following us?” Rialla glanced worriedly toward the source of the last noise, but the trees grew too close together to allow her to see anything.

A loud scream pierced the stillness, followed by a chorus of the weird noises. Rialla stopped walking, reaching with her talent to see what was causing the commotion. The trees that she’d been looking at rustled with the fury of a battle.

Tris wrapped one hand around her arm and pulled her into a reluctant run, loosing his grip only when she had stopped fighting him. Grimly, Rialla increased her pace, and Tris stayed beside her until the howls were muted enough that they could talk.

Rialla continued several steps before she realized that Tris had stopped completely. She turned to look at him and noticed the anger on his face.

“What were you doing back there?” he snapped.

“I was trying to find out what it had run into. If it was something big, the Uriah will be occupied with it and we won’t have to worry about it,” Rialla replied steadily, taking a small step back.

He looked at her with an unreadable expression, then took a quick step toward her. “It was a stupid thing to do. Uriah aren’t like people; they aren’t even like other animals. You could have been hurt, do you understand?”

She set her jaw and took a step forward herself, until she was knee to shin with him. “I understand that it was my choice to make!”

“You could have been caught up in the death throes of the animal it killed,” he said, glaring down at her.

“Not likely. I have more control than that. I was far more entwined with the creature in the ballroom at Westhold.” Her voice held more than a hint of frost.

Tris turned and took a step away in an obvious effort to control himself. Rialla had started to suspect that it wasn’t anger that he was trying to hold in check when she noticed that his shoulders were shaking.

“You were baiting me.” If she had had a weapon at hand, she didn’t know if she would have had the control not to use it. “You sorry excuse for a snake, you were baiting me.”

“Not entirely,” denied Tris in a muffled voice. “That thing in the ballroom hurt you, Rialla. Uriah are not like other animals—they are driven by hunger and rage; everyone knows that. For an empath to contact one is beyond reckless and well into rashness; the situation didn’t require such an act.”

Rialla considered what he had said. “You have the right. I apologize for taking an unnecessary risk. You still haven’t explained why you are laughing.” Her voice didn’t warm at all.

Tris turned back to meet her eyes. “I suppose that it was relief, primarily. I was apprehensive that after…” His eyes lost their laughter, and Rialla felt the dark rage that had never died down. “I was worried that the past few weeks would affect you more than they have. I remembered that little speech that you gave Laeth in my cottage—the one about once a slave always a slave—while you were yelling at me. It struck me as funny.”

“Laugh at me when I’m mad again and I’ll see that you don’t do it a third time,” said Rialla solemnly.

“I’ll look forward to it,” said Tris courteously.

He stepped toward her and offered his arm. After a brief hesitation, Rialla set her hand in the bend of his elbow. They continued down the path Tris had chosen.

“What do Uriah look like?” asked Rialla curiously. “I’ve never seen one.”

They had long since left the Uriah in the distance. Lengthy shadows from the trees around them dappled the ground, and the eastern sky darkened with reds and golds.

Tris shrugged. “They look like a human that has been dead for a month, and then decided to grow fangs and get up and hunt. They smell like it too.”

“Not something that I want to run into in the middle of the night,” commented Rialla.

“I’d rather not run into them at all, day or night,” responded Tris absently as he examined the nearby brush.

“What are you looking for?” asked Rialla.

“I smell thornberry around here somewhere. This time of year the blooms have a strong enough odor to keep the Uriah from catching our scent if they do pass this way.” He narrowed his eyes and pointed to the left. “Over there, near that oak. Come on, we’ll call it an early night and wait until the Uriah are somewhere else before we go.”

Tris led the way to a dense thicket several lengths from a good-sized oak tree. The tops of the bushes were covered with thick yellow blossoms that reeked like the moat of an abandoned castle in the summer. Finger-sized, wickedly sharp thorns covered the bushes from soil to flower.

“If you slide in under the branches you can avoid the thorns,” advised Tris, disregarding the incredulous look that Rialla aimed at him as she held her nose. “They all point up, so it’s safe to go under them.”

He dropped onto his back and slid cautiously under the brush until he disappeared from view. Rialla eyed the thorns dubiously, but followed him in.

To her surprise, the narrow tunnel that Tris had made widened into a sizable hollow big enough for two or three people to occupy. The brush formed a solid ceiling overhead, but there was room enough for them to sit up in it. The ground was soft with old leaves.

Tris grinned at her expression. “It makes a nice enough home, once you get used to the smell. The cover overhead is so tight it lets in very little rain.”

Tris opened his pack and began again to sort out the collection of plants. With a mournful expression he set aside several of the more mangled specimens.

Rialla watched, then took out the books that they’d stolen from Winterseine, shaking them to dislodge the leaves. As she set Winterseine’s book aside, she noticed that several pages had slid halfway out of the book—in spite of the clasp that held the white leather cover tightly pressed against the inner pages.

“Tris,” she said.

He looked up from the last of his plants. “Hmm?”

She held the book up for his inspection and the crumpled pages slid out further. Rialla quickly turned the book upside down to keep them from slipping all of the way out.

“Don’t touch those,” he advised, setting the plants aside. “There are any number of unhealthy effects a human mage could place in his spellbook.”

He took the book from her and tapped it on his leg, but the pages stubbornly refused to slide back where they had been. He tilted it gingerly, until a spot of daylight touched the creamy surface of the obstreperous sheets.

“Hmm.” he said as he flattened his hand and made a brief pass over the book. “These pages were never part of this book—they’re too old.”

Rialla looked again at the neatly folded sheets. “They don’t appear old.”

“Magic,” commented Tris. “There is more magic in those sheets of paper than any single mage could have collected, human or not. It would take a score or more of the strongest of my people to call that much magic—I imagine that it would take at least that many human mages.”

“They’re just blank sheets of parchment,” said Rialla, surprised.

Tris raised his eyebrows at her and looked again at the parchment. “You can’t see the symbols?” he asked.

She shook her head and leaned closer for a better look, closing her hand on Tris’s shoulder for balance. As soon as she touched him, the exposed surfaces of the formerly vacant pages were littered with markings that were somehow out of focus.

Rialla blinked and swore softly, pulling her hand off Tris. As soon as the contact was broken, the pages were blank again. “Can you tell what the spell is for?” she asked, her voice a little ragged.

Tris shook his head. “I’m not a human magic-user—I don’t use spells that could be written down this way.”

Rialla smiled at his obvious contempt. “What should we do with them?”

“Take them to Sianim and let the human wizards worry about them,” offered Tris, setting the book on the far side of his satchel, where the straying pages would be out of the way.

As Tris shifted to find a comfortable position, his hand fell on Terran’s journal. He picked it up and glanced at the pages.

Do you mind if I look through this? he asked.

Rialla shrugged. I have difficulty with Darranian script when there is sufficient light. If you want to decipher it, be welcome. I think I will attempt to rest.

She felt him focus his attention on her, and notice… Your leg is bothering you. Do you want me to see what I can do for it?

She hesitated, but shook her head. She wasn’t ready to relax under any man’s hands just yet.

Fine, Tris said. The offer is open, if you decide otherwise.

Rialla was curled up in the old dry leaves with her eyes closed when it occurred to her that she hadn’t noticed the difference between talking out loud and using mindspeech. She wondered when it had become so easy to speak mind to mind with Tris. The soft sounds of Tris turning the pages of the thin book blended into the rustling leaves, and she drifted into a restful slumber without further thought.

She didn’t know what time it was when he woke her up, but the makeshift cave was shadowed.

“Rialla?”

“Hmm?” she answered sleepily.

“I think that you might be interested in this.”

“Yes?” Rialla struggled to full awareness and sat up, brushing off bits of leaf and dirt.

It was dark enough that she couldn’t see Tris’s face clearly, but she didn’t need to. His intensity was strong enough to alert her that he’d found something in Terran’s journal.

“What is it?” she asked.

Tris tapped his finger lightly on the book and then set it down and pulled his knees up comfortably. “Let me tell you a story.

“There was once a boy, just on the point of manhood. His father was both a mage and an athlete. When it became obvious that the boy was neither, he felt himself a failure—an evaluation that his father shared.

“Like most children of his age, it was hard for the boy to see past the trials of adolescence to the man he might become. He was clumsy and self-conscious, with a tendency to stammer when he was nervous.

“In addition to being a magician, his father was also a trader in slaves. He traveled upon occasion to the mysterious lands east of the Great Swamp, because slaves from that region were valuable, if difficult to acquire. The boy’s only talent was a certain facility for languages, but it was valuable enough that he traveled with his father.

“It happened that one day they were traveling through a small, war-torn country in the East. They stayed overnight in a house that had once, long ago, been a shrine to the god Altis. Though most of it was rebuilt or an outright addition to the original structure, its origin was a matter of some pride to the owner—a rich merchant in his own right.

“That night at dinner, the boy made a fool of himself once again. One of the daughters of their host spoke to him, and he became so nervous that he knocked over his drinking glass and spilled the wine over his lap. With the laughter of his father and their host ringing in his ears, he stormed out of the dining hall and ran to the room he and his father had been assigned.

“The room itself was unusual. Unlike the rest of the rooms that the boy had seen in the house, this one had a floor and walls made of stone rather than wood. The cot that he’d been assigned was crowded against one wall; his father occupied the luxurious, silk-sheeted bed. The long, low marble table that was built into the floor restricted the remaining furniture to smaller pieces.

“The table was very old… its surface pitted by generations of rough usage. An altar, the merchant had explained with a shrug. There were several of them in various rooms of the house.

“The boy, seeking the refuge of solitude, entered the room carrying an oil lamp that he’d taken from its place outside the dining chamber. Made clumsy by youth and embarrassment, he stumbled over a small rug and fell. His forehead grazed a corner of the table. Though the wound was minor, it bled copiously, as scalp wounds frequently do.

“Less frantic away from the sounds of the laughter, the boy collected himself. Somehow the lamp had escaped being completely overturned, though the oil splashed. He set the lamp carefully on the white marble, ignoring the mess that the oil and the blood from his head had made on the pristine surface.

“He knew that he was going to have to ask someone to bind the cut on his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to suffer the scrutiny of a stranger, far less his father, who was certain to comment on his son’s clumsiness.

“He was dizzy, and since he was kneeling in front of the table he rested his arms and then his head on the cold marble. Gradually he slipped into a light doze.”

Tris paused, then said, “What happened next might depend on your point of view. I’ll tell it to you from the boy’s and you can make up your own mind in light of what we’ve seen.

“In his dream, he found himself walking down a white corridor with rooms on either side of him. Glancing into the first one, he saw a shrouded figure lying on a table similar to the one in his room. He couldn’t tell if the figure was alive or dead, and something kept him from entering the room to look more closely. In large relief on the wall above the table was a design of two red dragons intertwined.

“Now, our hero was a learned boy—books were his retreat from his father’s scorn—so he recognized what few would. The dragons were an ancient symbol for Temris, the god of war.

“Believing that he was dreaming, the boy didn’t fight the odd compulsion that drew him down the corridor. As he walked, he saw more rooms with shrouded bodies and the symbols of the old gods on the walls. Most of them he knew, but there were several he’d not seen before.

“The corridor went on and on, and still the boy walked. At last the compulsion pulled him into one of the rooms and he left the corridor.

“He noticed that a heavy layer of dust lay over everything, as if no one had been in the room for a very long time. On the wall was a symbol that he recognized not only from his own readings, but from its liberal use throughout the merchant’s house: the cat of Altis.

“Cautiously, he approached the covered figure on the table. As he did, he noticed that the dust on the shrouds had been disturbed and that the cloths didn’t lie as neatly as their counterparts had, as if the figure who slept beneath had been restless not long ago.

“With dream-born courage, the boy touched the fine blue silk with the intention of removing it. But touch it was all that he did, for it dissolved into nothingness under his fingers; the figure it covered disappeared with it, leaving only an empty table behind.

“As he looked down at the unoccupied table, he noticed first a drop of his blood on the table and then a drop of oil that had escaped the container he held in his shaking hand. The drops mingled as they wouldn’t in the waking world. He couldn’t look away, not even when a deep voice spoke behind him.

“ ‘Who disturbs the rest of the old ones, boy? Who meddles with forces beyond human ken? There is great magic worked on earth again that disturbs the sleepers, and a dragon rides the currents of the sky once more. This is no safe time to walk the halls of the gods and risk awakening them.’

“The boy felt the voice as much as heard it.

“He knew that he was shaking, though he felt no fear; the speaker seemed kindly, even fatherly. He answered slowly, ‘I don’t know about dragons or great magic, but I touched the shroud. I am Terran.’

“As he finished speaking, Terran awoke draped over the altar. Worried about what his father would say about the mess, he took off his tunic and wiped the marble surface as best he could.

“There was an ewer of water on the floor near the door, with a clean cloth folded neatly beside it. He scrubbed the blood off his hands, face and neck before he noticed that there was no cut on his forehead. The only evidence that he’d been wounded at all was in the bloodstained tunic and washcloth and the pinkened water in the bowl.

“Terran emptied the ewer out the window and hid his tunic and the stained washcloth among his clothes.”

Tris drew a deep breath. “That was Terran’s first encounter with the god Altis. In further dream conversations with the night god, Terran was favored with immense power that mimicked the magic used by Winterseine.

“Several months later, Terran—calling himself the Voice of Altis—began to set up an organized religion worshipping Altis with the help of his father.”

“Gods,” swore Rialla. “It wasn’t Winterseine at all.” She thought about the odd way that Winterseine had given in to Terran’s demands to bed her.

Tris spoke quietly, “The only proof that the dream was real is that Terran’s wound disappeared. A small cut in the scalp bleeds freely and heals fast. If the cut was actually above the hairline and very small, it would have been easy to miss it. Moreover, a blow to the head often leads to strange dreams that seem almost real.”

Rialla continued the thought. “Of course he would dream of the old gods in such a setting, given his proficiency with the legends. Everyone knows that oil and blood are common components in spell-making; certainly the son of a magician would.”

Tris picked up the logical discussion. “I understand that many human mages don’t come into full power until after sexual maturity. If he experienced such a phenomenon after his dream, then he would attribute it to the old gods rather than himself—especially someone like Terran, who’d been taught he was useless.”

Rialla rested her chin on her hands and gave him a half smile, though it was too dark for him to see it. “I should be reassured; all that we have said points to the idea that Terran’s power is the product of latent magic—something we are familiar with. But…”

“But,” agreed Tris in a troubled voice, “there is the healing of Tamas’s arm on the way to Winterseine’s keep. I could feel no magic. I thought that a skilled human mage might use magic in such a way that I couldn’t detect it, but I felt the magic in Winterseine’s book from the moment we walked into his study.”

“I can’t feel him with my empathy at all,” added Rialla. There was a slight pause, then she said, “I think Winterseine believes Terran is a prophet. When Winterseine touches me, I can read him. There is an undercurrent of fear in him now that he never had before, when I was his slave. I think… I think that what he’s afraid of is Terran.”

“Do you think Terran really is a prophet?” asked Tris.

“Yes.”

“So do I.”

Rialla was silent for a moment, then she said, “If Terran is really the prophet of Altis, the invasion we are facing is directed by a god. How powerful are the gods anyway?” She was pleased that her voice was steady.

Tris shrugged. “I’ve never had a close conversation with one. We can wait here and you can ask Terran if you like, but I’d prefer to remain ignorant. I understand the gods weren’t strong enough to halt the Wizard Wars.”

“Maybe they didn’t want to,” commented Rialla.

“Now, there’s a cheerful thought,” replied Tris dryly.

Rialla laughed reluctantly. “We’ll get this information to Ren and let him decide what to do with it.”

“Will he believe it?” Tris questioned.

Rialla shrugged, flopped back and pillowed her head on her arms with a sigh, saying, “I don’t know. I don’t think I was ever intended to be a spy. When we get to Sianim, remind me to tell the Spymaster that he ought to stick with the professionals. I seem to have turned a simple information-gathering mission into defying the gods with a man who claims heritage with an obscure, all-but-forgotten race of tree-folk. I’m sure that if I reflect upon it I can explain how it happened, but I really don’t want to think about it that much.”

She caught a flash of white in the gloom as Tris smiled. “I haven’t heard anything outside, so I think I’ll go scout. Let me know if you come to any brilliant conclusions while I’m gone.” He picked a double handful of grasslike stalks out of the satchel and rolled over on his back to shimmy out of the thornberry cave.

After Tris left, Rialla sat up again. It would be good to have some time to herself again; she wasn’t used to being continuously around people. In Sianim sometimes she would go for days without talking to anyone except her horses. The past month had left her little time to herself, and she was beginning to feel suffocated.

Tris negotiated the dark forest as if it were daylight; his eyes were well adapted to the dim light of the moon. He chose to follow their backtrail, checking carefully for signs of being followed. After traveling a respectable distance, he broke the stalks of grass into small pieces and scattered them on the trail he and Rialla had left. Histweed would be even more effective than pepper for irritating the nasal tissues of any animal tracking them. When he had used the last of the herb, he dusted his hands clean and looked around.

He had reacted without thought this afternoon when he realized Rialla had exposed herself to such danger. When she’d backed away from his anger, her fear had tugged at the link that bound them together and triggered an atavistic rage for which he’d been unprepared. Although he’d been told a threat to the bond could cause such a reaction, he’d dismissed the warning when Terran’s rape had called forth nothing unusual. Apparently the rape hadn’t qualified as a threat to their bond. He’d been able to control the rage this afternoon long enough to continue his attack deliberately, hoping she would fight back. If she had run from him… He would rather not know what could have happened. His laughter had been as much relief as amusement. He needed this time away from Rialla to collect himself.

Their backtrail covered, he decided to find the Uriah; it would be helpful to know where it was so they didn’t waste time avoiding it unnecessarily. Without Rialla’s human presence, he was free to travel by sylvan ways. That would let him find the Uriah and return to Rialla before she started to worry about him.

Humming under his breath, he called to the magic around him, and spun it swiftly to form a tunnel before him. He continued to spin as he walked into the shadowed way that lead straight through the hills and valleys lying in his path. The abundance of yew and oak here heightened the effect of his magic, and it took him minutes to cross the distance it had taken half a day to travel.

When he reached the place where he and Rialla had last seen the Uriah, he closed the tunnel and emerged near the stream they’d followed most of the day. He set off in an easy lope through the trees. It didn’t take him long to find the kill: a moose. Its bones were scattered along the path the things had taken—from the tracks it seemed that there had been more than one Uriah.

Tris stumbled over half of one of the heavy leg bones, snapped neatly in two; he marveled briefly over the strength needed to crack the dense bone. He spared a moment to be glad the creatures had happened upon the moose rather than him and Rialla. The Uriah’s trail was easy to follow, even in the dark. Broken branches and torn-up sod where several had briefly scuffled over something were as clear to Tris as a chalk arrow drawn on the trees.

Topping a hill, he caught sight of a small fire to his right. He dropped to a walk and left the Uriah’s trail to investigate the camp.

As he neared the fire, Tris caught the salt-sweet smell of horses and was careful to stay downwind as he approached. The animals shifted uneasily at the noise he made climbing a tree, but they calmed down when he made no aggressive moves.

From his vantage point, he could see there was no one in the small clearing, but the wood in the fire hadn’t been burning long. Tris assumed that whoever had built it would return, and he settled in for a long wait.

He made out Winterseine’s voice first, as the campers returned.

“… don’t understand why you insisted on leaving the guards behind. This is a dangerous place.”

“Precisely, Father. The more people that are running around the more likely we are to attract the attention of any brigands or Uriah that are in the area. I can handle thieves or Uriah, but I can’t protect a troop of men from them.” Terran’s voice sounded more decisive than Tris remembered.

Tris crouched where he was and watched as Terran and Winterseine returned to camp with several cleaned fish on a string.

“We can’t afford to let her get to Sianim with that dagger. If I am implicated in Karsten’s death, it would keep me from controlling Darran. Are you sure that you know where she is? We haven’t seen as much as a footprint.” From Winterseine’s intonation, Tris received the distinct impression that it wasn’t the first time that Winterseine had questioned the direction he and Terran were going in.

“I told you, she’s stopped a league or two southwest of here.” Terran’s voice had a bite to it. “We’ll catch up with her sometime tomorrow. You haven’t seen her tracks because we’re not following their trail. This route is more direct than the one they’ve been taking.”

Winterseine asked the question that was foremost on Tris’s mind. “What do you mean their trail? I thought she was alone.”

Terran grunted then said slowly, “No. She’s been traveling with someone else. I can’t quite see who it is—he may be a magician of sorts.” He paused, then commented, “He’s not with her now, but he was most of today. I suspect that he might have helped her get out of the hold.”

“You mean that she’s traveling with a magician?” asked Winterseine in arrested tones.

Terran nodded and began to prepare the fish for the fire.

Winterseine had his back turned so that Tris couldn’t see his face, but tension coiled in the human’s stance. “She stole my grimoire. We need to find them as soon as possible, before the magician realizes what he has.”

Terran stopped working with the fish and looked at his father intently. “And just what is it that he has? Your spellbook? The one taken was the one that you wrote as an apprentice; certainly there is nothing there which a magician wouldn’t already know.”

Tris, watching unseen, thought about the sheets of parchment that had fallen out of Winterseine’s spellbook and wondered.

Winterseine hesitated. “There were some spells there my old teacher gave to me that I would rather not pass down… and I do not relish the thought of another wizard paging through the book.”

Those pages must be important, thought Tris with satisfaction.

Terran turned his attention back to their dinner, and Tris took advantage of the moment to leave the tree. He eased quietly back into the forest and lost himself in the shadows.

Thoughtfully, he resumed his search for the Uriah. The search had more urgency now, as it seemed that he and Rialla would be traveling tonight, and he didn’t want to be stumbling into a group of Uriah in the dark.

He smelled them long before he saw them and, remembering tales of their acute senses, used his magic to draw the darkness more tightly around him and cover any sound he might make before he approached more closely.

There were six of them sleeping; Tris was struck by how human they looked at rest. When he’d seen the one before, he hadn’t noticed the resemblance; they didn’t move like humans any more than a wolf moves like a dog. At rest in the dark, they seemed nothing more than a filthy group of people.

Tris found another tree to climb, one that gave him a clear view of the Uriah. All of them were male, but Tris had expected that. He’d never heard of a female Uriah.

On the far side of the pack, one of them had used the root of an old oak as a pillow. There was a heavy branch above it that looked sturdy. Closing his eyes, Tris felt for the magic that connected all of the trees in the forest, then he looked for the particular tree he wanted. When he found it, he traveled along the flow of magic, reemerging on the branch of the oak, with the Uriah sleeping just below him.

As he looked down, he realized he was closer than he’d ever been to one of them; a shiver ran up his spine. Irritated with himself for his uncharacteristic fear, he craned his neck until there were no leaves between him and the sleeping creature. That was when he noticed something around its waist. A sturdy leather belt hung loosely on the Uriah’s hips; the broken strap of a sword or knife sheath was still attached to it, though the sheath was gone.

The thing below him, in spite of everything Tris had ever heard, had once been human. The healer in him stirred. If this were some kind of disease, he might be able to reverse it.

A single Uriah he might have held still with his magic so he could examine it, but there were too many for him to risk coming any closer. The one below him was touching the root of the oak Tris perched in. It would not be as efficient as touch, but the tree could serve as a conduit for his magic.

Tris braced himself more securely on his branch, then searched for the thread of magic all living things have. He followed the flow of the tree’s magic to its roots and reached out for the creature that he knew was there, and touched…

Back in the sheltering thornberry, Rialla rose to her hands and knees at Tris’s agony. Taken unprepared, she cried out. She sought him, dropping her barriers recklessly in her worry.

Rialla? It was faint, but it was clearly his voice that answered her frightened call.

Are you all right? she asked urgently, though she could tell that he wasn’t hurting now. The revulsion and shock that he felt were still strong, and made it difficult for her to read his thoughts over the din of emotion.

Yes… talk later, when I get back, he said.

She sent her agreement and withdrew from him, waiting alone for his return.

The Uriah had woken at Tris’s involuntary cry. Realizing that food perched just overhead, the one below him began to climb the tree, making an odd mewling sound as it did so.

Tris pressed his face to the rough bark of the oak. It was almost more than he could do to reach for another tree near enough for his purposes. He found another oak on the far side of the clearing and used his magic to pull him there. It took four such jumps before he quit smelling the Uriah.

Tree bark slid past his hands as Tris fell to his knees with bruising force, retching helplessly.

The Uriah that he’d touched was dead, but held to mock life by human magic so twisted that when he touched it and tried to coax it to his use it felt as if he’d touched molten rock with his hand.

Tris took in a shuddering breath and rose to his feet. Seeking out the stream, he threw cold water on his face. The shock of the temperature did much to alleviate his queasiness. Traveling through the trees was hard and draining work; it took him two tries before he was able to form the tunnel that would take him back to where Rialla waited.

Rialla was pacing outside the cave of Thornberry when Tris came back with his backpack. On a forked stick near her were two good-sized trout.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, taking a step toward him.

“No, but I’m hungry.”

She eyed him narrowly, but the link between them informed her that he was not lying. After catching the fish, she’d gathered enough wood for a small fire, and she nodded at it. “Is it safe to light the fire? I don’t know about you, but I prefer my food cooked.”

“The Uriah are too far from here to smell the fish cooking. Our other pursuers are doubtless asleep by now.” He lit the fire with a bit of magic and sat down near it.

“Other pursuers?” Rialla questioned, filching the knife he carried in his boot.

“Winterseine and son are camped an easy morning’s walk from here. Apparently Terran doesn’t have any trouble tracking our movements from a distance.” He described briefly what he’d overheard.

“Is that where you got hurt?” Rialla questioned with a touch of concern, cleaning the fish. She discarded the entrails behind a nearby bush.

Tris shook his head. “No, that was the Uriah and my own stupidity. After I saw Winterseine and Terran, I hunted for the Uriah—there’s a pack of six—so we wouldn’t run into them trying to escape Winterseine. When I found them, I thought that I could help them with a touch of healing. That’s where I got hurt.”

“Stupidity is right,” said Rialla with a dawning grin. “You lectured me all day about Uriah. Do I get to return the favor?”

“No,” he answered. “I think I learned my lesson the hard way.”

She laughed and handed him a fish and a handful of willow branches. Taking her own fish, she hooked it on a larger forked willow branch and began to weave a crude basket around it. “Tell me how you traveled ‘an easy morning’s walk’ and back in such a short time.”

“Magic,” he replied easily as he worked on his fish.

They roasted their fish in silence broken only by the spit and hiss of the fire. Watching flames dance, Rialla examined all the possibilities that she could think of, until only one remained.

“How long would it take you to travel to Sianim by yourself?” she asked.

Tris looked up from his fish. After a moment he shrugged. “I can only use the faster ways until I reach the road, so it should take two days, maybe three, assuming the cook was right when she told me how far it was from the crossroads to Sianim.”

He turned his gaze back to the fire. “I’ll not leave you behind. Getting the dagger and the books to Sianim is not worth your life.”

“Nor is it worth yours,” she answered. “I agree, but I don’t think they’ll kill me—I’m a valuable slave, remember? I believe Terran is the Voice of Altis, and it is important that Sianim be made aware of it. You said Terran can track me; then let him. It will give you time to get the journal away. If we wait for him to catch up with us, they may win it all. It would be idiotic to assume your magic could overcome both a magician and a prophet of Altis. In fact, your being with me could put me in worse danger. They still think I am a slave. They want the items we stole, and they’ll keep me alive at least until they find out where those things are.”

Tris said nothing, so Rialla spoke again. “I might be able to evade them while you take the books to Sianim and return here to help me. Without the necessity of reaching Sianim, I can choose a path that gives me an advantage over a mounted pursuit.” She knew that if Terran had some god-given means of tracing her, she would be caught. If she were careful, though, she might be able to stall them until Tris could return and help her escape.

“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.”