They stopped near one of the charred cottages shortly before sunset. Camp was set up with a minimum of fuss. Winterseine used the leash on the training collar to stake Rialla to the ground near the fire, where she would be easily visible throughout the night. He didn’t remove the bindings from her arms.
None of the restraints were overly tight, but her arms had been in the same position for the better part of the day and her shoulder was beginning to ache. Between that and her throbbing leg, Rialla decided that a decent night’s rest was doubtful. Adding insult to injury, she had the choice of lying with her face in the dirt, or with her weight on her awkwardly bound arms.
Rialla.
She thought she must have jumped, but if she had no one had noticed. She wasn’t used to someone speaking in her mind. Tris?
Yes. How is your leg?
She tested it cautiously. It hurts, but no more than it did.
Good.
She waited, but he didn’t say anything more. With a resigned sigh she rolled on her face. To her surprise she fell into a restful doze that lasted through the night.
The next morning, Terran was busy elsewhere, so it was the servant Tamas who boosted Rialla onto her mount. She hadn’t paid much attention to him the first day of the trip, but his touch forced his emotions and some of his thoughts onto her, leaving her feeling unclean. It wasn’t simple lust he was feeling, but something more bestial—he fed his desire on degradation and pain. Even after she was on the horse, he found a thousand reasons for touching her.
By late that afternoon the sky had darkened, and Winterseine increased the pace to a trot to avoid the threatening storm. The horse Rialla was riding had a trot that threatened to rattle her teeth loose, and what it did to her aching head wasn’t pleasant—but the faster speed limited Tamas’s fondling, so she felt it was a vast improvement.
They sheltered for the night in a monastery dedicated, ironically enough, to the god of storms. Most of the worshippers of the old gods were confined to a few old temples like this one. It was a primitive fortress made of the dark native stone and rendered even more dismal by the gloominess of the darkened sky.
Several monks came to take their horses, and Rialla dismounted easily enough by throwing one leg in front of her and sliding down her horse’s side. She hoped to avoid Tamas’s help at all costs.
The storm god disliked women in his sanctuary, but the good monks had built a small outbuilding as a concession to secular parties who needed shelter and would pay the monks generously for the privilege. The hut locked from the outside, so that there was no chance of females wandering into the main buildings and desecrating the temple.
The building was barren and windowless. Rialla supposed that if she’d been a noblewoman, a cot would have been found for her and burned when she left. As it was, she would have to make do with the stone floor. There wasn’t much chance to look around before the door was shut, leaving her in the darkness. She heard the unmistakable sound of the wooden board being slipped into place on the door.
Rialla sat on the uneven stone floor and closed her eyes with a sigh of relief that she was alone. She’d feared that Tamas was going to be left to guard her, and she didn’t want to spend all night fighting him off.
She wasn’t sure the actual moment she realized she wasn’t alone in the room, or what first alerted her. Before she had time to panic, she realized that she knew who was here.
“Tris?”
“Mmm?” he answered absently, and the collar jerked around her neck as he began unbuckling it.
“How long have you been here?”
“Not too long. You smell like wet horse.” He removed the bands on her arms and Rialla stretched gratefully, almost moaning in the relief of moving her arms freely.
“My favorite scent,” she replied.
One of Tris’s magelights illuminated the barren little chamber.
“Not exactly cozy,” he commented.
“It is clean, which is better than the men’s accommodations in the sanctuary are likely to be,” she said, patting the stone beside her in invitation.
Instead, Tris sat facing her and took off the pack he carried on his back. He rummaged inside it and then pulled out a checkered board and placed it between them.
It was not as elaborate as the one he had at his cottage, but it was functional and they whiled away the afternoon with several games of Dragon. He won them all, but she managed to make him work for it. After the third game he set it aside with visible reluctance.
“I have to turn out the light now,” said Tris. “Though this building is sturdy, I don’t doubt that there are enough holes in the mortar that someone might notice the light coming out. You don’t want to try to explain how you managed to produce light in here.” He waved his hand and the magelight disappeared.
“I noticed that Winterseine’s rat-faced servant was having some difficulty keeping his hands to himself today,” Tris commented. “Now, have you thought about giving the little lecher leading your horse a thorough disgust of you? I would think that empathy would prove useful that way.”
She laughed, grateful that somehow his remarks had turned Tamas from threatening to absurd. “I’m afraid anything vile I can think up will just excite him more.”
“There is that possibility,” he agreed in thoughtful tones.
Rialla laughed again and found a more restful position. The silence continued comfortably between them until she began to drift asleep.
“How do you intend to prove Winterseine killed Karsten?” asked Tris abruptly.
She roused herself slightly. “You mentioned that the dagger that killed Karsten disappeared. If I can find it, any decent wizard can tell who used it.”
“Who are you trying to convince?” asked Tris.
“What do you mean?” Rialla said. Then she added, “Gods, I never thought of that. What Darranian is going to believe anything a wizard says?”
She thought for a moment then said, “What if I approach it differently? What do you think the regency council’s reaction would be if I proved that Winterseine was a mage? It wouldn’t prove Laeth’s innocence, but I don’t think that Winterseine would be allowed to inherit Karsten’s lands either. That would leave Lord Jarroh as the most powerful man on the council.”
“How are you going to prove that Winterseine is a mage?”
She shook her head, though in the dark he couldn’t see her. “I don’t know, but I’ll find a way.”
Tris woke her early in the morning to replace the restraints before someone came in. Just as he finished the last buckle, they heard the bar being removed.
“Tris,” hissed Rialla urgently.
He smiled at her and took a step back until he was against the wall, then made an odd gesture and his features blurred and darkened. Rialla watched fascinated as Tris blended into the wall, the stone coloring overshadowing his own. It altered in subtle tones until the shadows hid any sign that he stood there. Tamas opened the door, pulled Rialla up by one arm and escorted her out, oblivious to the observer left in the stone hut.
It was a cold and miserable day, and the horses were spooky because of a stiff wind that brought strange smells uncomfortably close. Rialla huddled under her cloak and wished vainly that Tamas weren’t holding the lead line on her mare.
The sun rose, a dim disk in a gray sky. By the time it had reached the middle of its journey, it was totally obscured by black clouds. When rain began to fall in sheets, the party halted while Terran and Winterseine conferred briefly.
Tamas took advantage of the rest stop to force his horse next to Rialla’s.
“I like the pretty ones, the soft ones like you,” he said. “Lord Winterseine says if you are not good enough to dance, I can have you before he sends you to his brothel. You wouldn’t like it there, but if you pleased me I might keep you.”