Steal the Dragon

10

“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 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 packhorse 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 effective 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.

“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 bum 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 return, because the little horse adored her rider. With scarcely any reluctance she left her snack and started back, the packhorse 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.

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 also 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.”