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?”