Mutely, with head bowed, Rialla walked to the center of the cell. The light coming through the window surprised her and left her slightly disgruntled. It felt as if several days had passed since this morning: it could at least be dark.
She knew that Tris was standing in the shadows, but he didn’t say anything. She didn’t know if it was the guard’s presence that kept him back or if something showed in her face. She stood for a while after the door closed, finally exchanging the silk shift for the clean white tunic that had been left for her by the door. She set her discarded clothes carefully over the book; Tris could find something to do with it before morning. With nothing more to keep her busy, she sat on the clean straw.
He didn’t come up behind her and begin rubbing her neck as he usually did, and she was grateful. She didn’t think that she could stand to be touched for a while, not even by Tris. She wished they’d let her take a bath before bringing her back, though she knew from experience that water wouldn’t make her feel clean again.
After a very long while, she curled her legs up against her chest and hid her face against her knees. The healer was very patient; she could hear him breathe and knew that he hadn’t moved since she came in. Rialla knew she ought to tell him something, but she was afraid if she spoke she would shatter the fragile shell that guarded her tears.
Instead she lowered the tight barriers that she’d placed around the part of herself that was linked to Tris.
Tris, I … Even in her thoughts she couldn’t form the words, so she pulled him into her memories instead.
Rialla waited numbly for his reaction—though she wasn’t sure what that would be. Anger, perhaps, or even disgust; sorrow would not be unthinkable for a healer to feel at rape—even if the victim consented to it.
What he felt was white-hot rage. It was strong enough that Rialla pulled her head away from her knees to look at him. He stood where he had for so long, his face still. Without the link she wouldn’t have known that he felt anything.
She didn’t know what to say in the face of his fury. It surprised her that she could think of saying anything at all. If it had been Laeth, standing quietly in the darkness of the little cell, she’d have been cowering in the opposite corner.
“I found some journals of Terran’s,” she said finally, pleased that her voice sounded calm. “I thought he might have known about Karsten’s murder and recorded it. I’m not sure if I got his oldest journal or the most recent one; I didn’t have time to check.”
“You found it in Terran’s room?” She felt his rage focus, and realized he must not have picked up who it had been.
There was too much. I couldn’t catch everything. He told her, apparently catching her thought.
“Yes,” she said. “I found it in Terran’s room.”
“He just let you take it?”
She shook her head. “No. He was asleep in another room. I don’t think that anyone will notice that it’s gone until Terran tries to write in it again. I… umm… suggested to the guard who escorted me back that there was nothing uncommon in a slave taking one of Terran’s journals.”
Tris grunted.
“Even if I took the wrong one, he might have written about Winterseine’s use of magic,” she added.
The shadows in the cell deepened with the lengthy silence, until the only light came from the stars.
Rialla cleared her throat, uneasy because Tris’s rage wasn’t abating. “What happened is just part of being a slave, and not the worst part either. He was clean and didn’t go out of his way to hurt me. I don’t think that he was impressed enough with my performance to want another one.” She knew that she wouldn’t cry now, because slaves don’t, and she felt more like a slave right now than a horse trainer or spy.
“Is ending slavery in Darran still so important to you?” he asked, his head turned away from her. “The slaves here don’t appear to be fighting nearly as hard for their freedom as you are.”
Rialla nodded her head wearily.
“Even after this?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow,” asserted Tris heavily. “Tomorrow we will leave.”
Rialla stubbornly shook her head. “The journal isn’t going to be enough by itself. We need something—” Her breath caught as the answer came to her. “We need Winterseine’s spellbook. All wizards have one… I think. Can you find where Winterseine’s study is?”
Slowly, Tris nodded. “It’s somewhere on the upper floors. I can try to break in tomorrow.”
“Then we leave,” said Rialla, feeling a wave of relief at the thought of being away from this place.
They talked a while longer, discussing ways of leaving the keep. There were several possibilities, depending on the time of day and how many guards they met. But, eventually, they lapsed into silence.
It was strange how much Terran’s demands bothered Rialla. Sex had never been something that she enjoyed, but it was a part of slavery. She hadn’t liked it, but she didn’t remember the revulsion being so strong it was difficult not to fight back.
The time when Tris usually left for the night came and went. She’d reestablished some of the barrier between them, but it was more difficult to do this time than it had been the last. She found his presence comforting.
Rialla curled up on her side in the straw and closed her eyes. She was exhausted, but couldn’t sleep. After her fourth or fifth attempt to find a comfortable position, she heard a polite murmur at the edge of her awareness.
Sweetheart.
She hesitated, then, reluctant for any kind of intimate contact, she spoke out loud. “What is it?”
Come with me, Tris invited, his mind tugging gently at her.
Where? she asked, curious despite herself.
Here. He pulled her into his dreams.
She stood on a boulder and looked down at the immense waterfall, its thunder vibrating the very rock she rested on. The chilly mist that rose from the water settled on her clothing and darkened the rock under her feet. She glanced up to see mountain peaks looming on all sides; the ridges were white with new fallen snow, but the lower slopes were the rich blue-green of conifers.
The rushing sound of water falling onto the rocks far below deafened her, and she looked down, but the rising mist blocked her view of the bottom. She took a deep breath of the air and felt it again, that disturbance which had brought her to this place.
A narrow path wove along the damp stone cliff face, and she found herself striding down it as if it were a broad highway. As she put her hand on the rough bark of the cedar tree that clung precipitously to a narrow ledge just above the one she walked, she was aware of the slow migration of nutrients from its roots and the nourishing warmth of the sun from above. She paused for a moment, recognizing the peaceful triumph of the gnarled cedar. As she lingered, her insight grew and encompassed the growing things around her.
The broader awareness stayed with her as she continued her descent. There was something waiting in the mist, something special; Rialla could feel the tingling currents of magic in the rocks and air.
The trail she’d been following ended abruptly as the cliff sloped down into the water a stone’s throw from where she stood. She squinted, but couldn’t see anything through the dense fog of the waterfall. Moving water created powerful magic currents; there was enough magic in the gorge to have called a thunderstorm over a desert. With a wave of her hand, Rialla used some of that magic to dismiss the fog.
In the center of the roiling water, a large black stone protruded; the strange whisper of inner understanding designated the rock as a fire-stone, formed deep in the molten heart of the earth. On this stone something slept. If it hadn’t been for the faint rise and fall of its breathing, she might not have seen it. As she distinguished first the side and then the back of the creature, she realized that most of the upper surface of the stone was actually a giant black lizard.