“If he were trying to pass himself as a servant of Altis, he might do it to reinforce his position,” he said thoughtfully at last.
“In front of a group of guards, a servant and a slave?” questioned Rialla.
“Even so,” answered Tris. “If I wanted to know something about a noble, the first people that I would ask would be his servants. If he has declared himself the Voice of Altis, then the people who must believe in his position most fervently are his servants.”
Rialla felt something inside her relax with Tris’s explanation: facing Winterseine was sufficiently daunting. She would rather not worry about prophets and gods.
“Where did you leave your horse?” she asked, kicking at the straw until it padded a section of floor.
“What horse?” Tris replied.
“You ran?” hazarded Rialla doubtfully, looking at the heavily muscled healer. In her experience, runners weren’t built like blacksmiths.
He smiled. “No. In the forest, there are other ways opened to those who know how to use the doors.”
“Magic?” asked Rialla, hiding a yawn behind her hand.
“Indeed,” he nodded.
The sun was just up when a pair of guards came and escorted her to Isslic of Winterseine’s unoccupied study. They attached her leash to an elaborate bronze ring set in the wall and left her alone.
She sat on the floor and leaned against the wall. As with the holding cell, she’d been in this room before. When a slave was misbehaving, Winterseine had her brought here to his room for sentencing—but first he made the slave wait.
The sounds of advancing footsteps woke Rialla up from her nap—she had stayed up too late talking with Tris. She was thankful that she awoke before Winterseine had come into the room—the wait was supposed to make her nervous, not sleepy. She didn’t want to enrage him pointlessly.
She was on her feet when the door opened to admit Winterseine. Docilely she kept her eyes on the floor and her hands at her side.
“Well,” said Winterseine, his voice almost a purr, “it’s nice to have you back, Dancer. Tell me, why did you run away in the first place? You knew that I would find you.”
Rialla answered meekly, “Yes, Master. I knew that you would find me. I am sorry that I ran—I was frightened.”
“What frightened you, Little One?” Again his voice was soft, like a predator stealing up on its prey.
Rialla felt the first twinge of fear—but it was a slave’s fear and she was here by choice. The thought steadied her. Just as she started to answer his question, Tris attempted to contact her.
Rialla, where are you?
Later, she snapped at him, and closed her mind tightly to his presence.
To Winterseine she said hesitantly, “One of the other slaves there, in the upper rooms of the tavern in Kentar… she was killed that night. I saw them bring her body out.” She paused and framed her words carefully out of truths. “The day before, the man who owned her was asking the barkeeper how much it would cost to buy me.”
It had been idle speculation, a common question rather than serious intent, but the thought of being sold was frightening to a slave. Better the known evil, which one has gotten used to, than the unknown. Slaves are taught to be afraid of the unknown.
“So you ran away, killing one of my people.”
“He startled me,” Rialla said tremulously, remembering the shock of the man’s death. “I pushed him and he hit his head on something on the floor. It was dark and I couldn’t tell what it was.” She had hit him as hard as she could with a mallet that had been left in the stables. She’d set the mallet near the body, and left. But Winterseine would expect her to lie and she had to stay in character. There was a squeak as Winterseine settled himself into the big, leather-covered chair behind his desk. “You killed him with a hammer.”
Rialla shook her head and looked frightened. A slave would never admit such a crime and Winterseine knew it. “No,” she said. “He hit his head.”
“You killed him,” said the voice of the Master implacably. He might know that she wouldn’t admit it, but he still needed her to realize that she couldn’t get away with lying to him. He didn’t wait for her reply again. Instead he asked a different question. “Where were you going?”
Rialla shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Away, anywhere.” That was true enough.
“Laeth said that he picked you up in the South. How did you get there?”
“After a few days, I don’t know how long exactly, a man found me hiding under a bush. He took me and sold me to a merchant who smuggled me out of Darran and sold me to another merchant who worked the countries in the Alliance.” Though selling an escaped slave was illegal, it was commonly done.
“I can’t have slaves escaping, Dancer.” Winterseine’s voice was stern, but there was regret in it as well—a father talking to an errant child. It made Rialla want to retch.
“No, Master,” said Rialla submissively, and the slave master sat back to contemplate her punishment.
The guard led her through a maze of hallways until he came to a place where there were two half-sized doors set into the wall at waist height. Rialla could hear soft sobbing sounds coming from behind one of the doors, and she watched apprehensively as the guard slid the bar off the other one. The door opened to reveal a dark hole even smaller than the door itself. A cobweb covered one corner and the guard brushed it aside.
“In with you,” he said. His manner wasn’t threatening, but Rialla had no doubt that he was willing to enforce his command.
She entered the darkness as slowly as she could, wanting to give any insects the chance to get out of her way. The opening wasn’t quite tall enough for Rialla to crawl on her hands and knees, so she had to squirm forward until her feet slid through. The guard closed the door behind her and threw the bolt. Rialla stretched out her hands and felt the end of the cell; it was little bigger than the coffin the Darranians used to bury their dead.
For a normal human, such confinement would have been frightening. Rialla’s awareness, though, wasn’t limited by the stone around her. She could tell when the guard left to find lunch, she could touch the terror of the slave occupying the other cell, and she could feel Tris’s impatience as he waited for her to tell him what was happening.
Rialla!
Yes, she answered.
Are you all right? Where are you?
She caught his worry and sent back reassurances as she responded. I’m in solitary. It’s not so bad; he had to do something for discipline and he doesn’t like damaging his slaves if he can help it. I thought that it would be worse.
I’ll take your word for it, Tris answered, I feel trapped inside these stone buildings humans like to build; I wouldn’t care to be enclosed in a smaller area. I think I’ll go exploring today and see what I can find out—call me if you need some company.
Where are you going to explore? Rialla asked curiously. His face was known to Winterseine and a fair number of his guards. If someone saw Tris wandering through the castle, his presence might be questioned.
Illusion is a simple enough magic, replied Tris, apparently having little trouble following her thoughts. Not many people notice one more bench or decorative plant. A picture formed in her mind of a plant, similar to those scattered about Westhold, and a battered bench.
What if someone tries to sit on you? questioned Rialla, still feeling uneasy at Tris’s ability to read thoughts that she wasn’t actively projecting.
That’s why I prefer the plant when I can, but the bench has a rotted leg to discourage anyone who might want to rest.
Luck to you, Tris, Rialla said. Be careful.