Steal the Dragon

5

After Rialla left for the stables, Tris made his way carefully through the courtyard, taking advantage of each bit of cover as if he were stalking game in the forest. He was too well known at Westhold to strike out boldly as Rialla had, but stealth was second nature to him, and his progress was only minimally slower than hers. He was amused to discover that he was enjoying the challenge of this adventure as much as a boy half his age.

The tallest structure at Westhold, the tower stood midway between the hold wall and the keep, overshadowing the squat structure of the nearby guardhouse. It was half again as high as the great wall. Although the tower was older than any other structure in the keep, having been part of the main building of the original fortress, the ancient stones still rested squarely where they had been placed.

He was crouched in the shadow of the guardhouse when the sound of men’s voices caused Tris to freeze where he was. He kept his breathing shallow and his body still against the rough-finished wooden wall as three guardsmen passed close to him. Too close for Tris, who wrinkled his nose at the sour smell. He waited until they were safely inside their living quarters before he moved from the darkness and crossed the short open area that separated the tower from the guardhouse.

There was no door into the tower, only a wide opening onto the main floor. One guard stood just inside the door, staring at the night. He was a young man, with the nervous air of a green recruit. His hand rested on the wooden hilt of his sword, clasping and unclasping slowly.

Tris called to his magic, humming under his breath to lend power to his summons. When the magic came, he pulled it around him in a curtain of silence and shadows. He slipped cautiously between the guard and the edge of the aperture.

The inner room of the tower was cramped and bare; the high ceilings made it appear almost empty. It was lit by a number of slow-burning torches that sent shadows dancing against the gray stone walls.

In the center of the room was a circular stone pillar with another doorless entrance, through which Tris could see a narrow, winding stair reaching upward. Just past the central stairway, a man, obviously more experienced than his fellow guardsman, sat on the floor, leaning against the banister of a descending staircase. Patiently he ran a stone in small circles against the edge of a knife blade.

Tris followed the wall, moving slowly to put the stone of the wide pillar between himself and the older guard. He froze motionless when the man looked up and stared directly at him, some instinct alerting him that the atmosphere of the room had changed.

“Nar!” called the younger guard. “There’s something outside.”

The veteran sighed, laying aside his honing stone. He rolled lightly to his feet and walked without hurry to the younger man’s post. Tris took advantage of the guard’s distraction to sprint across the room and into the safety of the enclosure that housed the central stair.

The surface of the staircase was worn unevenly, and he was glad of his soft-bottomed shoes that allowed him to feel his way. The twisted stone steps and the enclosing stone walls made Tris, who preferred wood to stone and open air to either, feel uneasily confined.

As the ceilings were high, it took two revolutions of the stairs before another doorless aperture opened into the second floor. From what Tris could see of it, the dimly lit chamber seemed to be a duplicate of the one below. Faint light entered the room from window slits near the ceiling, but most of the light seemed to be coming from a small oil lamp.

A guard sat at his ease on a bench placed near the outer wall. He was carving a small piece of wood by the lamplight. The lamp itself sat on the arm of a chair equipped with thick leather straps. The room was littered with devices of various sorts needed for “persuasion.”

Tris continued up the stairs, which narrowed until there was less than a hand span between Tris’s shoulders and the stone wall. The last light from the rooms below faded until even Tris’s acute night vision ceased to be of service and he climbed by feel alone.

The stairway ended with a trapdoor set into the wooden floor of the upper level, which Tris discovered by slamming his head into it. His spell was sufficient to absorb the noise, but it didn’t help the knot on his head. He felt around the edges of the door with his hands until he found the simple wooden latch and released it, catching the door before it hit his head a second time.

Climbing the last few stairs, Tris arrived in a very small circular room. He stepped onto the floor and pulled the trapdoor shut behind him. There was a latch on the upper side as well, though this one was made so a strong pull from below would break it.

Satisfied that the door was securely closed, Tris divested himself of both shadows and silence and called a magelight to allow him to see.

Four oaken doors, heavily barred and framed with iron, stood at regular intervals in the wall of the room. He opened his mouth to call out, but shut it before a sound escaped.

There was no reason to assume that Laeth was the only one imprisoned in the tower. The less noise that he made finding the Darranian the better off they would be.

Tris moved to the first door and set his forehead against the wood. Stone was cold and dead to him, but wood was like an old friend. When he asked, the oak gave up its secrets to him, allowing him to descry what lay hidden behind the door.

The first room was empty, and Tris moved on to the next. As he lifted his hand, the magic in the cool metal reached out to him. A human mage had ensorcelled the locks; no green mage could have done such a thing with iron.

The magic was so foreign to Tris that he couldn’t even discern its nature. He could tell that the magician hadn’t tainted the oak with his spell. Laying his forehead against the old wood, he “looked” inside.

If it wasn’t Laeth, it was someone of his height and weight wearing the clothes of a noble. He was shackled hand and foot. He must have put up quite a fight, judging from the care someone had taken that he not be able to move more than a finger.

Tris placed his open hand on the door and sang softly in his own language. With a soft, sighing sound, as if it were very tired, the wood disintegrated into a pile of sawdust, leaving both the lock and the metal structure that had framed the door intact.

Laeth looked up at the light too quickly, and had to duck his head into his shoulder to wipe his eyes free of the light-induced tears.

For all that Laeth was a useless Darranian noble chained hand and foot, he was still a trained warrior. Tris had dealt with enough predators in his life to know that they were at their most defensive when they were trapped. It would, he decided, be wise to wait until Laeth knew that he was a friend before attempting to remove the bindings.

Laeth opened his eyes cautiously, took in the missing door and the magelight hovering behind, and came to the wrong conclusion.

“I’m surprised that even the Spymaster of Sianim found out about my imprisonment so quickly,” said Laeth in a soft voice that wouldn’t carry far.

“As far as I know, he didn’t,” replied Tris as quietly, pulling the hovering light source around until Laeth could see him clearly.

The Darranian’s eyes widened as he realized, for the first time, who had come to his rescue. Before he could say anything, there was a loud crashing noise from the floors below.

Tris froze, noticing that Laeth held himself still as well. They waited, but no further sound reached them.

Finally Tris stepped over the sawdust and into the cell, his magelight following closely. He propped his staff against a convenient wall and crouched beside the battered Darranian to examine the chains more closely.

As was usual for such objects, they were made of low-grade iron. Iron and its refined cousin were exceedingly resistant to natural magic. Given enough time, the healer might have been able to destroy them with his magic, but time was a scarce resource.

Tris pulled a ring of keys out of his belt pouch and found one that worked on the wrist cuffs.

One night, not long after Tris had come to Tallonwood, a man had knocked on his door in the middle of the night, obviously suffering from a severe beating. He stayed with Tris for two days before leaving as suddenly as he had come. Tris found the set of keys on his worktable the morning after the man left, set out obviously as a payment. When the word came that a notorious thief had escaped his imprisonment at Westhold, Tris had not been surprised.

The set of skeleton keys had proven to be useful several times since then, and he carried them with him more often than not.

The shackles had been overly tight, restricting the circulation to Laeth’s hands and feet. While Laeth worked at returning the feeling to his limbs, Tris looked him over carefully. There were a few abrasions and bruises, especially where the rough metal had cut into his wrists and ankles, but the worst of it seemed to be the swelling.

Tris reached for Laeth’s hands. Instead of rubbing them, as Laeth had been attempting to do, he held them gently and began to heal the abused tissue.

The Darranian jerked his hands back and stared at them—probably, thought Tris with some amusement, because he’d never seen them glow before.

“What…” Laeth visibly caught himself. The less talking that they did the better; there would be time for that later, if they made it through the night alive. The Darranian gave Tris a frustrated look, then held out his hands again.

Tris worked on Laeth’s hands and feet. The healing wasn’t as complete as it could have been; Laeth was still having problems moving with any ease. Bruises and stiffness were difficult, and they had already taken too long.

By levering a shoulder under Laeth’s arm, Tris managed to get the Darranian through the doorway. He balanced Laeth against the wall, went back for his staff and then touched the sawdust with a finger, and concentrated.

Slowly, the dust shimmered yellow and restructured itself. Like a living creature, it slithered up the iron frame that had reinforced the wooden edges, until a saffron curtain hung where the door had been. There was a snap, as if someone clicked his fingers, and the oak door stood as solid as ever. If a guard came up to look, he would have to open the door to notice that Laeth was gone.

Tris dismissed the magelight and opened the trapdoor again. The tower was quiet below them.

The healer had to help Laeth down the first few steps. Between the heavy staff and the heavier Darranian, negotiating the narrow, dark stairway was awkward work. As soon as the noble seemed steadier, Tris pushed in front.

After they had descended six stairs, Tris gestured for Laeth to wait, and continued down alone. He intended to deal with the guard on the second story himself, leaving only the two on the bottom. As he stepped carefully down the stairs, he noticed that the room was different.

The oil lamp was no longer burning. Faint moonlight from the three windows high in the side of the tower allowed Tris a clear view of the empty bench where the guard had been. The rest of the room was lost in darkness.

He had hoped that he could take on the guards separately and minimize the risk of an outcry, but the guard who had been here had left. He would have to get Laeth and—

He had taken a step back toward the stairs when something caught his attention.

He held very still, listening for the faint noise that instinct told him would come. Something bumped into a piece of furniture, pushing it a short distance across the floor. Tris dropped to a low crouch, hoping he’d escaped detection. His new position allowed him to see under the table and past it to the source of the noise that had first alerted him.

A square of pale light from one of the windows illuminated a pair of rough boots—boots that moved limply forward and back, scuffing the floor lightly. It had been this sound that he’d heard first.

A small gust of wind from the window brought with it the peculiar rotting smell of the swamp and the sweet smell of fresh blood. It appeared that another swamp creature was loose in Westhold: someone wanted to make sure that Laeth didn’t miss his appointment with death.

Balanced in a kneeling position, with eyes slitted so they wouldn’t glisten in the faint light, Tris waited. The guard’s body shifted suddenly across the floor as the killer changed its hold, and the healer got a clear view of what he faced.

Someone had told him once that many creatures of the swamp were things created by one of the old human wizards—the ones who had very nearly destroyed the world with their uncontrolled use of magic. The creature that suckled the neck of the dead man certainly had unnatural origins; Tris could sense a wrongness in her that a natural animal, be it ever so vicious, had never inspired.

From a distance she would appear to be a voluptuous naked woman. Tris was close enough to see the pointed ears, the flesh-colored gills on her neck, and that her long, silky hair grew from her back as much as her head.

The inch-long nails on her hands and bare feet were retractable, sliding in and out as she ate. Her eyes were closed as she concentrated on her meal.

Something around her neck was starting to glow purple; the light grew stronger even as Tris noted it. It was a collar of some sort, and she reached up to bat at it without taking her mouth from her prey.

As the glow intensified, she growled and hissed, jerking back from the body, a bead of blood trickling from the corner of her mouth like a teardrop. She tore at the collar, but it held firm.

To Tris’s surreptitious examination, the collar reeked of human magic. If he had to guess, he would have bet gold that the collar contained some geas that forced her to find Laeth and kill him.

Sullenly she left the body and started toward the stairway, not noticing Tris frozen motionless only a length away. He would have let her go if it hadn’t been for Laeth—weakened, unarmed, and waiting on the stairs.

When she passed him, Tris rose to his feet and held his staff at ready in one hand. He would wait as long as he could before attacking. The more he knew about her, the better chance he would have.

Tris saw her stiffen as she caught sight of Laeth, seated on the stair and momentarily unaware of the drama that was taking place. She hissed. Tris couldn’t see Laeth, but he heard the sounds of the Darranian backing up the stairs quickly.

She made a soft barking sound that might have been a laugh before unleashing her magic. The wordless call that she sang was potent enough that even outside the focus of her magic, the healer could feel the pull.

As Laeth stumbled down the stairs, she backed away before him, leading him into the room with the rest of this night’s meal. She was intent on her prey, and didn’t notice the healer sinking back into the shadows on one side of her, aided by his own magic.

Laeth took two steps forward, then stopped. He pulled his hands slowly to his ears. She increased the intensity of the summoning, making the tones evocative of sex and need. Sweat beaded on the Darranian’s skin as he fought to stay where he was.

Enough, thought Tris, and struck at the side of her head with the metal-strewn end of his staff. It was a blow that would have killed any human, and it knocked her across the room and into an assortment of tables and implements whose purpose was lost to the dark. She returned to her feet in a silent, powerful rush.

Remembering Laeth’s earlier reaction, Tris closed his eyes momentarily and called a brilliant flash of magelight, just long enough to blind her, and took two quick steps to one side. She hit the table next to him, reducing it to kindling, and he swung again with his staff, connecting with her shoulder.

She seemed less hampered by the darkness than he was, so he recalled the magelight at a bearable level.

Her fangs were impressive but thin and sharp, more suited to opening the neck of her prey than fighting. Her eyes were slitted, like a cat’s, telling Tris that she was indeed more comfortable in the dark room than she would have been in the light. He’d hurt her; one arm hung limply at her side and blood from her head blinded her right eye.

The hard, slick floor bothered her; he could see her testing it warily with each step. He had just come to the conclusion that he held the advantage in this fight, when she threw something at him with her good hand.

He raised his oak staff, and it caught the spell, absorbing most of it; the remainder flung him against a wall.

The creature laughed, and she sounded like a young girl. She drew her hand back again, but stopped mid-gesture. She looked surprised, and blood trickled out of her mouth. She coughed once before falling face forward. Laeth stepped out of the shadows behind her, holding a bloodstained metal bar with a sharp point. Tris assumed that it was something the guards used for torturing prisoners.

Laeth looked at the dead creature and said, “I don’t suppose that we have to worry about any more guards.”

Tris shook his head. “Not unless we’ve made enough noise to wake the men in the guardhouse. We’d better get moving.” Laeth nodded in agreement and followed, walking only a little stiffly.

On the first floor they found the bodies of the other two guards lying near the entrance. Tris stepped around them and into the darkness, with Laeth behind him.

The healer led Laeth to the outer wall of the keep, near the place where he and Rialla had entered. Laeth climbed the wall slowly, but without incident. Tris waited until the Darranian had reached the top before securing his staff and following him up and over.

They had reached the protective cover of the forest when the alarm bells began to sound. Laeth hesitated, and Tris grabbed his arm and pulled him deeper into the forest. Laeth waited for explanations until they were immersed in the heart of the woods. Then he stopped and leaned against a convenient tree to rest.

“My thanks for your timely intervention, healer,” he said, with a wary look. “You’ll have to excuse me for wondering why you did it.”

Tris shrugged and made himself at home on a fallen log. “Do you believe in prophecy?”

“What?” Laeth asked.

“I was given a riddle… a path to follow that might lead to something necessary to me.”

“This riddle requires that you risk your life for someone that you have shown every sign of disliking? A man, moreover, who is being held for killing the Lord of the Hold?” questioned Laeth incredulously.

Tris smiled slyly. “Well, now, Laeth of Sianim,” the healer said, “my actions tonight might reflect the fact that your associate is the only person I’ve ever met who can beat me at Steal the Dragon.”

“Rialla?” Laeth’s voice was suddenly intent. “Where is she? Is she safe?”

Tris nodded. “She’s fine.” He hesitated, and honesty compelled him to add, “I hope. She should meet us at my cottage with your horses. Your lady is there as well.”

“Marri?” There was relief and surprise in the lord’s voice.

“She came to let Rialla know that they intended to draw and quarter you in the morning,” said Tris.

“Did she tell you that Lord Jarroh intends to prosecute her for conspiracy to commit murder? That she is supposed to be locked in her room? The stupid chit came to warn me of something that any idiot would have noticed and someone saw her—as you’ve probably already heard. Then she compounded the crime by insisting on seeing me in the tower.” Laeth shook his head in exasperation, but there was admiration in his tone as well.

Tris smiled and shook his head, saying solemnly, “That’s too bad then. You’ll have to take her with you to Sianim.”

Laeth looked at the healer for a minute before donning a return smile. “Isn’t that too bad? Poor girl.” Straightening, Laeth sent an inquiring look at Tris. “Shouldn’t we be going, in case someone institutes a door-to-door search of the village? I seem to recall that is the first procedure the hold follows after a felon has escaped.”

“They’ll wait until dawn; it’s too easy to miss someone hiding in the night,” said Tris, getting to his feet anyway. “I imagine she’s worrying herself into a frenzy, though. Shall we go and relieve her anxiety?”

When the two men reached Tris’s cottage, there was no sign of life, except the healer’s gelding dozing quietly in its pen.

Cautiously Tris opened the door and slipped in, followed by Laeth. The dim light of the waning moon caught Laeth’s bruised face.

A gasp was the only warning Laeth had before a shape launched itself over the counter and hit him with enough force to make him stagger back. Some part of him must have recognized the voice because he grabbed her and spun sideways, deflecting Tris’s staff with his shoulder.

“Ouch, plague it! I thought that wizards were supposed to be able to see in the dark. It’s only Marri.”

When Laeth was sure that no additional blows were forthcoming, he turned on the lady. “By the Lord of Death and all his minions, Marri! Don’t you know better than to throw yourself on someone without identifying yourself first? If the healer’s staff had fallen where it was aimed, it would have knocked the few brains that you have out on the floor; as it is, I think that he broke my shoulder blade.”

His anger would have been more believable if it hadn’t been for the fact that he held her close throughout the tirade, his hands gently smoothing the sobbing woman’s hair. His voice softened remarkably. “It’s all right, my heart. Don’t carry on so. I’m safe now and so are you.” He looked up to say something to the healer, but Tris had tactfully and silently withdrawn to the back room.

With the alarm ringing in her ears, Rialla took the horses to the high road, where the guards would be sure to see their tracks. Riding Stoutheart and leading the mare, she kept them to a brisk trot they were capable of maintaining for several hours.

When the side road to Tallonwood appeared she trotted on past it, waiting for a dirt road in the opposite direction that would show her tracks well. She wanted no suspicion to fall on the heads of the hapless villagers or their healer.

She also didn’t know what shape Laeth was in. It was possible that he was unable to travel on his own. By misleading the guards, she might be able to steal some time for Tris to get Laeth to the cottage.

Just as she turned off the road, she heard the thunder of a mounted party that was rapidly decreasing the distance she had won. Rialla tied the mare’s reins so there was no chance that they would cause the horse to fall and left her to follow without being led.

When Rialla leaned forward and asked for a faster pace, the dun gelding responded by stretching its neck flat and breaking into a hard gallop that the more heavily laden and lesser quality beasts of the guardsmen would not be able to match for long. Though she wasn’t as well bred as Stoutheart, without lead line or rider to hamper her, Rialla’s mare had no trouble following.

When a hunting horn was sounded behind her, Rialla knew that the guards had seen her. She made sure that she stayed just within their eyesight, wanting them to chase her, rather than wandering through the countryside, where they might chance upon Tris and Laeth.

As the guards’ mounts tired, Rialla slowed Stoutheart, giving her horses a well-deserved breather. She guided the gelding onto a narrow game trail through the woods. Relaxing slightly, she settled deeper into the saddle, resting her back and legs. She glanced behind her occasionally to make sure that the guards didn’t fall too far back.

The trail took a sharp turn through some bushes and over a narrow creek. Rialla looked back to see how far behind her pursuit was, just as her mount pushed through the brush and into a meadow. On the other side of the meadow was another party of guards.

With a series of startled shouts the fresh group broke into a hard gallop and Rialla turned the dun sharply to the left. She rose in her stirrups and leaned forward as her horse charged through the meadow and crashed headlong into the bushes on the other side, followed by the loyal little mare.

She decided that she’d given Tris enough time and concentrated on losing her followers—if she could. The new party was mounted on fresh horses and hers had already had quite a run. Stoutheart’s shoulders were wet with sweat, but both he and the mare were still moving easily.

She could hear the men cursing as they fought through the brush. They were losing most of the advantage of following where her horses had already broken the branches, because there were too many of them; they tried to follow her as a pack instead of one at a time.

Most of the second party were falling behind, but there were a few who were more determined. At least one of them was mounted as well as Rialla—probably a nobleman who had decided to relieve his boredom by chasing criminals.

Stoutheart stumbled to his knees in the rough footing, but recovered quickly. Rialla couldn’t see any sign of lameness, so she stayed on him. Time enough to switch mounts when the gelding showed signs of weariness.

They broke through the last of the undergrowth to find themselves on a well-traveled road. Rialla pulled her mount to a trot and looked back to see if there was anyone still behind them.

The nobleman was still in pursuit, but she didn’t see anyone else. Turning the gelding in a circle, she aimed him at the stone wall that ran the length of the road, and hoped that there was enough light from the sliver of moon that the horse could see to jump.

Rialla had carefully chosen the horses that she and Laeth took from Sianim. They were grain-fed and in fighting shape, lean and tough as only rigorous daily riding could make them. Rialla blessed that toughness as the gelding cleared the wall with a snort and the mare followed closely on his heels.

She looked back and swore silently. Despite their mad run across the salted field and the leap over the fence on the opposite side, the noble was still gaining ground.

She turned back into the forest, where skill played a greater role and minimized the advantage his fresher horse had. In the rough going, he quit gaining on her, but he didn’t fall back either.

Rialla wasn’t familiar with the area, and it seemed that the other rider was. Several times he took advantage of shorter, easier routes through the terrain that was rapidly becoming rougher as they raced away from the cultivated areas. The thought that he might be herding her occurred to Rialla just as the gully they were running down deepened and narrowed.

Rialla was afraid that the trap had already closed. The sides of the gorge weren’t much taller than the trees that grew here and there along its length, but they were sheer and soft. Rialla searched frantically in the dark for an exit, certain that the canyon would end in another precipitous embankment.

Finally, she found a section of the ravine wall marred by a recent rock slide which had carved a path of scree and detritus that was marginally less steep than the rest of the wall. The trail was not inviting, but Rialla was desperate.

She sent the riderless horse up first, urging it with a swat and an empathic demand. The little mare leapt up like a deer and made it to the top.

Her scrambling hooves kicked loose the rocks, and slowly the whole slope began to move again. When the mare was safely up, Rialla turned Stoutheart at the tide of moving rocks that was their only way out.

True to his name, the gelding dug into the tumbling rock, his breath labored and clearly audible. A lesser horse would have failed, but wild-eyed and sweating, Stoutheart plunged to the top of the rubble and made a tremendous leap upward to solid ground. Dust rose as the slide rumbled to the bottom, leaving behind silence and a sheer wall that no horse could negotiate.

Rialla let the horses catch their breath. She wanted to get a clear look at the man who was so intent on catching her. It was only a moment later that the pursuing horse thundered down the ravine. His rider pulled him up when he saw the silhouette of his intended prey on the top edge of the bank.

She heard him swear. The only way that he was going to get his big horse to where she sat quietly watching was by backtracking to the entrance, and by that time she would be long gone and lost in the darkness.

She recognized his voice, but even if he hadn’t spoken a word, she would have known him. Lord Jarroh had a way of carrying his muscular body that was unmistakable at this distance.

His fury caused his horse to half-rear, before it was ruthlessly controlled.

Lord Jarroh raged at her, his voice rough with grief, “Why did you do it? He loved you, damn you. He was proud of the way that you defied the family to train in Sianim. He used to talk about how much he missed his clever brother. But he wasn’t as clever, was he? He trusted those he loved too far. He didn’t know that the bitch he married wanted his brother’s bed. He didn’t know that his brother wanted the wealth and power that he possessed.”

Rialla had forgotten Lord Jarroh’s tendency to make speeches. He obviously thought that she was Laeth. If he knew that Laeth had escaped tonight, then it made sense.

She and Laeth were about the same height, her newly darkened hair was a similar color and length, and she was riding Laeth’s horse. A Darranian would never believe that a woman could elude two parties of guards and a Darranian lord—much less that a slave could.

Rialla looked down at the man who had beaten the little slave to death that long ago day in Kentar. Stoutheart shifted restlessly under her and she forced herself to loosen the reins. She was glad that she wasn’t carrying a knife or bow, because if she had been, he would be dead—and she had a use for him.

With Karsten dead and Laeth discredited. Lord Jarroh was the only one who would stand a chance of securing the alliance between Reth and Darran: the alliance that would mean an end to slavery in Darran—if Winterseine didn’t gain the power of Karsten’s estates.

She kept her voice low and husky when she spoke. If Lord Jarroh knew that it was a woman who spoke, he would simply dismiss her words.

“I am not Lord Laeth, merely a compatriot of his from Sianim. My task was to divert pursuit from him, and by now he is safely spirited away. Still, I have a few thoughts to share with you.

“First, why should Lord Laeth choose to murder his own brother in a manner that was sure to put suspicion on him? If he can work magic, why not stage an accident? A misspent arrow or a slip down the stairs should have been easy enough for a man who can control a thing like the creature at the ball.

“Think about the man who is pushing so very hard to accuse Laeth. Who benefits if Laeth and Karsten are both dead? Who depends on income from the slave trade that would cease if the marriage between the princess and King Myr takes place?

“Perhaps you might turn your inquiry in other directions, since Laeth is now well beyond your reach.” With a small salute she turned her winded mount into the mountain country at a slow canter.

As soon as the trees hid her, she let Stoutheart drop into a walk. The mare followed as faithfully as any puppy, rubbing her sweaty head against Rialla’s leg to relieve an itch under the leather bridle. Rialla only had to find her way back to the healer’s cottage before morning, without running into anyone else, and the rescue would be complete.

She was forced to huddle in a thick copse of brush when she ran into some of the guards resting their horses. She couldn’t tell if it was one of the parties that had been chasing her or not. There were probably stragglers scattered all over the woods. Luckily the guard’s horses were too tired to bother to whinny a greeting, and Rialla kept hers quiet.

The enforced rest allowed her time to think about her speech to Lord Jarroh. Blowing at an errant strand of hair, Rialla shook her head at the idea that was presenting itself; but neither went away. The hair was an annoyance; the idea a possible solution to this disaster.

The guardsmen left eventually, and Rialla mounted the mare and set off in the general direction of the healer’s cottage. She narrowly avoided another group of riders, and heard a third before she found Tris’s home.

Cautiously, she waited to be sure that there were no guards nearby. When she was satisfied that she was the only one lurking in the nearby woods, Rialla tied the horses in a thicket of lilacs that grew on the edge of the woods. The heavy perfume of the flowers followed her as she crossed the log spanning the creek that ran behind Tris’s home.

“Laeth? Tris?” she called softly as she opened the door.

A quiet-voiced reply led her into the back room, where she found Laeth, Tris and Marri waiting in the dark. They’d left the lamps unlit so they didn’t attract the notice of the patrols.

“Greetings,” Rialla said wearily, leaning against the door. “It’s good to see you in one piece, Laeth.”

“It’s better to be in one piece than four,” he agreed gravely. “What took you so long?”

“I was keeping Lord Jarroh and his men off your tail, so don’t take that tone with me,” she told him.

Laeth grinned at her unrepentantly, and Rialla smiled back, picking a leaf out of her hair. She took a seat on the floor next to Tris’s stool, since Laeth was sitting on the bed with Marri.

“The horses are waiting in the grove of lilacs by the edge of the forest,” Rialla said, fighting the urge to close her eyes and sleep. “You’d better get going; it’s almost dawn, and if you’re found here, innocent people will suffer.”

“Aren’t you coming too?” asked Laeth.

Rialla shook her head, having come to a decision as she rode through the night. “I’m going to try to prove that Winterseine killed Lord Karsten.”

“How?” said Marri with a frown. “No one is going to listen to Laeth’s slave.”

“No,” agreed Rialla, “but they don’t have to. I intend to get the proof of Winterseine’s involvement to Ren in Sianim. If he can persuade me to come back to Darran as a slave, he can convince the regency council to convict Winterseine.”

“Where are you going to get this proof?” The healer’s voice sounded tired, softer than usual.

“Winterseine wants his slave back. If Laeth disappears, he will have legal claim…” She noticed that there was a damp spot on the floor near Tris’s chair, where she was resting her hand. She touched her ringers to her mouth and said, “Did you know that you are bleeding, Tris?”

“No, am I?” He sounded intrigued. “That creature that we bumped into must have caught me—I didn’t notice.”

A faint light appeared cupped in one of his hands. As he bent to examine his legs, Rialla noticed that his sleeve was suspiciously dark.

“It’s your arm.”

Tris pulled the knife from his boot and twisted to tuck the point of the knife under the material of his tunic.

“Here, let me,” offered Laeth, who’d crossed the room when Rialla first noticed that Tris was wounded. He took the knife and split the sleeve from shoulder to wrist.

“Just a cut,” said Tris after a quick look. “I’ve got some brandy and bandages out front.”

Laeth stayed where he was while the healer left the room.

“By the gods, Ria, I wouldn’t take my brother’s estates if they were offered to me,” he said intently. “I enjoy being a mercenary much more than I ever did being a Darranian lord. Let Winterseine have the plague-ridden land. Don’t do this.”

Rialla leaned back against the wall and shook her head. “I’m not doing this for you, Laeth; proving your innocence is a side benefit, but that’s all it is. If Winterseine gains the power of your brother’s estate and title, what happens to the alliance?”

“It fails, as he intends it to,” Laeth bit out angrily. “Slavery remains a part of Darranian culture. That’s tragic, but slavery has been around a long time. Eliminating it in Darran isn’t going to stop it elsewhere. Plague you, Ria, it’s not worth the risk of your freedom.”

“What freedom?” asked Rialla intensely. “I am a slave. I spend all of my time trying to prove to myself that I am not.”

“Nonsense,” commented Tris. Rialla hadn’t noticed when he entered the room; he had dispensed with the magelight. “You were supposed to come straight here, not engage in a series of highly unnecessary heroics, and lead the hold guards on a white stag hunt all over the countryside while we sat here and worried. A slave does as she’s told.”

Laeth snickered. “I keep trying to tell her that, but she doesn’t listen.”

Rialla smiled, enjoying the exchange—but not accepting it. They didn’t know how insidious the slave mentality was, the fear of being beaten or worse: the need to please the Master.

“Did you clean your arm?” she asked.

Tris nodded. “I can’t get the bandage tight, though. It’s in an awkward place.” He handed a long, narrow cloth to Rialla.

She hesitated then said, “I’ll need some light.”

He produced another light, and she wrapped the cotton tightly around his upper arm.

“This looks like you were raked with claws,” she commented.

“We ran into something in the tower,” said Laeth. “I didn’t notice whether it had claws or not.”

“Something that smelled like it came from a swamp,” added Tris. “Apparently someone wanted to make certain that Laeth would die.”

“I told Lord Winterseine I was going to stop Lord Jarroh,” said Marri hesitantly from the bed, “even if I had to sleep with Jarroh to do it.”

Laeth started laughing. “I bet you had him convinced that you were a mouse all this time. Did you call him a stupid mule too?”

“No,” said Marri, “I called him a murderer. I knew that you hadn’t killed Karsten: you don’t have it in you to commit such an act. The next most logical suspect was Winterseine. Especially since he was working so hard to convince everyone that you were the guilty one.”

“I wonder what he sent after Marri,” mused Rialla. “I think that you’d better take her with you to Sianim, Laeth.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “I had intended to do so. I wish you would come with us.”

Rialla shook her head again. “No.”

“I’ll tell Ren what you are doing. He ought to be able to find you and get you out, if you can’t do it on your own.” Laeth obviously wasn’t happy, but he knew her well enough to understand that he couldn’t change her mind.

“Thank you,” said Rialla.

“I suppose, then, that we had best be out of here,” said Laeth briskly.

“Let me get some things together,” said Tris, heading to the front room. “I’ve got some sturdy clothes that might fit the lady, if she’s not too choosey. I wondered what I was going to do with them when the farmer gave them to me for healing his ewe. I’ve traded bread as well. It should only take me a moment to find everything.”

True to his word, Tris took only a short time to pack a pair of large saddlebags. He hefted the load and handed it to Laeth.

With the bags over his shoulder, Laeth took Rialla’s hand and kissed it with a courtier’s grace.

Rialla patted his cheek gently with her free hand, and then shoved him on the shoulder hard. “Get going before they find those horses. Keep it to a walk if you can; they’ve had a hard night. If you bear northeast into Reth, you should be safe enough; most of the soldiers are searching in the southeast, toward Sianim.”

“I’d planned on it,” he said. “I have some friends in Reth that we can stay with and rest the horses. Luck to you, Ria.”

“And to you,” she replied.

Laeth turned to Tris. “Thank you for your aid this night.”

Tris shrugged it off. “If you and your lady reach Sianim in safety, that will be thanks enough.”

Tris followed them out, saying that he could conceal the obvious tracks and if anyone saw him wandering around in the dark, they would think nothing of it. There were several plants that were more potent if picked at night.

Alone in the cottage, Rialla went back to the bedroom and fell on the bed with a moan; she couldn’t believe how exhausted she felt. She closed her eyes and couldn’t seem to open them; she groaned when Tris roused her again.

“Sorry, I know,” he said apologetically. “But I have to get you cleaned up before someone wonders why a badly wounded slave is covered with mud and tree limbs.” As he spoke, he pulled off her borrowed clothes.

She was just far enough out of her stupor to know that she should be objecting to his actions, but couldn’t seem to find the energy to do it. He wiped her down with a damp cloth and put her slave tunic back on with minimal help from her.

It worried her to be so sluggish, and she fought free long enough to say in a frantic voice, “What’s wrong with me?”

“Shh, it’s all right. Healing is very wearing on the body. Normally after what I did, you would sleep for a whole day rather than leading a pack of hunt-mad guards on a will-o’-the-wisp chase.” As he spoke, he took a comb and began working it through her hair, ignoring her irritable complaints when he tugged too hard. “We’ve got to get the rest of the leaves out.”

Finally he laid her down in the bed, but he didn’t cover her. Instead he sat beside her and said, “Rialla. Wake up, just one more time. Come on, sweetheart.”

Responding to the urgency of his voice, she just managed it. The dawn lit his craggy face, and she could read the reluctance in it.

“If they see that I’ve healed your leg, they’re going to be suspicious.” He seemed to be having trouble with what he was saying.

“We need to give them a slave with a wounded leg,” she said.

Tris nodded.

Rialla worked up the energy to smile. “If you have a knife, I’ll do it.”

He shook his head. “No need for anything so crude, but it’s still going to hurt.”

Her eyes closed again, but she laughed anyway. “Give me a minute and I doubt that I’d feel it if a mule kicked me.”

She was wrong. When he reopened it, she cried out—too tired to be tough.

He carefully set stitches to keep it from scarring, then covered the wound with a numbing salve and wiped the involuntary tears from her cheek with his thumb.

“All right now?” he asked.

She nodded and closed her eyes and didn’t open them again for several hours.