I will, he assured her, withdrawing to a less intimate level.
The other slave was beginning to get frantic in the enclosed dark space. Out of a latent sense of compassion and a desire to test her empathy further, Rialla decided to see if she could help her fellow penitent.
Patiently she worked through the fear of the other slave, sending peace and reassurance. Gradually rid of her fear, the woman was rocked by another emotion: hatred. Her emotion was strong, and it gave Rialla a clear picture of the focus of her hatred: Winterseine—hardly a surprise.
Unable to bear the contact any longer, Rialla withdrew and struggled to rid herself of the residue of the slave’s fear and hatred. When she was calm, she steadied herself and projected the soothing peace that would allow the other woman to sleep. Gradually the other slave allowed herself to be pacified and fell into a light stupor.
It was late in the afternoon when Winterseine and two guards came to get her out. She crawled out of her hole and stood blank-faced for his inspection. He narrowed his eyes at her thoughtfully before leaving her with the guards.
Rialla watched as Winterseine slid out the bar that held the other slave captive in the coffin-shaped hole. In the relative light of the hold hallway, Rialla could see that the other’s skin was so dark it looked as if it were carved from oiled ebony. Her features were fine-boned and her thick copper-colored hair hung past her waist—another Easterner.
As Rialla looked at the other slave closely, she realized what Winterseine had seen to make him look so thoughtful. Though the other slave’s face was as blank as Rialla’s own, it was lined with exhaustion and her hair was matted with sweat. Slight tremors shook her shoulders as she struggled to maintain the passive stance that Rialla had adopted. Rialla knew that she herself looked as if she’d been sleeping in a cot all afternoon.
“Take them to the baths and have them cleaned. Return the dark one to her classes in the blue room. Take the dancer back to her cell,” ordered Winterseine briskly, and the guards led the slaves away.
In a clean tunic and freshly washed hair, Rialla found herself back in the little cell she’d spent the night in. There was a meal of bread and fruit waiting for her. She left the food where it was, waiting for Tris to come and eat with her.
Daylight came in from the high window, and the bars left their shadows on the walls rather than the floor. Rialla paced for a while before retreating to the accustomed discipline of the exercises that had become second nature to her as both dancer and horse trainer.
If she were going to have to dance very often, she might as well be in shape for it, she decided ruefully. Her bad leg was tight and she babied it through, hoping that she wasn’t doing it more harm than good.
When she was finished, there was sweat running down her back, but she wasn’t overly tired. Into her right hand she poured a little of the cool water from the ewer that had been left with her food. She splashed the water on her face and dried it off with the bottom of her tunic.
Bored, she sat beside the fresh straw and began to braid it as her mother had taught her to fashion horsehair rope. The straw was bulkier and not so strong, and the rope kept breaking before she got very far, but it was something to do.
She was beginning to eye the bread wistfully, when she realized that Tris was very near. She noticed a change in the stone near the top of the cell by the window. It looked at first as if the stone were growing. The granite blocks and the mortar between them bulged out in a lump roughly the size of a man’s body. The lump slid gradually lower until the bottom of it rested on the ground. Slowly Tris pulled free of the rock, his body and features became distinct. The color of the stone gradually left his skin and clothing, and Tris stood brushing dust off his tunic and breeches.
“Better you than me,” commented Rialla.
“What? You mean passing through the stone? It’s not that bad—granite’s kind of scratchy, though. I prefer marble or obsidian, but granite’s more common.”
Rialla laughed at his serious tone.
“So,” she said, “how did your explorations go?”
“Fine,” he replied, rubbing his beard as if it itched. “I didn’t see anything unusual except the number of cats here.”
Rialla nodded and grabbed a piece of fruit. “Most castles have a lot of cats. They keep down the rat population.” She bit into the tart apple and sighed with appreciation. Sianim was too warm to get really good apples.
“No, I mean a lot of cats. Someone here really likes them.” Tris sat with his back against the wall. “How was your day in solitary?”
Rialla gave a rueful shrug. “Not bad, better than tomorrow will be. There was another slave from the East there, but I didn’t get any useful information out of her.”
“What do you mean better than tomorrow?” Tris hadn’t been moving before, but now he was still, like a predator who has scented his prey.
Rialla finished the apple and put the core back on the tray. “Do you want something to eat?”
Tris shook his head without losing his air of intensity. “I’m fine. What about tomorrow?”
She tore off some bread and stood leaning against the wall. When she was through with her piece, she said wryly, “I’m in for it. I was stupid and forgot that I was supposed to look abused after a day in solitary. Now he’s got to find another punishment.” She sighed drolly, trying to soothe him as she felt his anger rise. “I guess I was never meant to be a spy.”
“What will he do?” asked Tris again, grim-voiced.
She shook her head. “I have no idea. Don’t worry, it probably won’t be anything too painful—he doesn’t want to ruin his slave. He has to maintain a fine balance: too little discipline is disastrous, but too much discipline will break the spirit and ruin a dancer.”
Tris looked down at the floor and asked, “Does it bother you to be a slave again?”
Rialla glanced at his hands, which were clenched around his left knee. He was having a harder time with her enslavement than she was. She paused thoughtfully for a moment before she answered, hoping that she could make him understand. “I would have thought it would, but it doesn’t. I guess it makes a difference that it was my decision to come back. I choose to act like a slave, so they can’t make me feel like one. Does that make sense?”
He looked a bit baffled so she added, “A slave has no power to make decisions; I do.” Thinking about tomorrow, she smiled with little humor. “I have to live with the results too.”
The next morning, when the guards came, Rialla was awake and ready for them. She wasn’t taken to Winterseine this time, but to the castle punishment chamber.
The chamber was in a light and sunny area in the corner of the main floor of the castle. Both of the windows were low enough to get a nice view of one of the walled gardens behind the castle. Clear glass was expensive, so the windows were barred and open to the air.
Rialla supposed that the windows were there to remind the prisoners that there was a world outside, and to keep them from succumbing to the hopelessness that made them die too soon under the torturer’s knife. From the despair she read in the few moments before she pulled her shields all the way up, she could have told Winterseine that he was wasting his windows.
The guards attached her tether to a wall and left her alone with the other prisoners, none of which were slaves. She had never been in this room; Rialla had been a tractable slave before she escaped.
The leash was a formality without the arm restraints—she could have taken it off with very little effort—but she was supposed to be a good slave. There were no guards, just the prisoners attached to the wall with heavy manacles.
Heavy canvas curtains blocked off the business end of the chamber. Rialla was just as glad not to have to look at the arcane devices responsible for the human wrecks that moaned pitifully where they hung like so many carcasses at a butcher’s shop.