She still did not know how the fight had ended. Taquar had never told her what the outcome was. When Taquar's men had not returned that day to Amethyst's house as quickly as he had expected, he had locked Terelle in the water-room and left the house. She had tried furiously to escape, clawing and battering at the door with the only implement she had-the wooden water scoop-without success. Several hours later, some enforcers had come for her and escorted her to Scarcleft Hall. She had been locked in the room she now occupied and had not seen Taquar again. No one told her if Shale had escaped with Kaneth, or indeed if Nealrith and Kaneth had succeeded in leaving the city. No one told her anything, and every question she asked was ignored.
The idea that Shale might be dead gnawed at her, hour after hour, but she had to accept that it was possible. Anything was possible, and it was the not knowing that was the worst. She and Shale: they had squabbled, he with reasoned coolness and she more with hotheaded passion, but part of her had revelled in the joy of the relationship, in the wonder of her first good friend. Nor had she been blind to the way he looked at her sometimes, with the hint of something more than friendship if only she would give the word. Haunted by memories of the lust of men who came to the snuggery, she had hesitated. And now it was too late.
Part of her had been deeply touched by his last promise, no matter that it had been rendered ineffective just moments later. He had said he would look after her, that she would never want for water.
And now? Now the days dragged by in boredom and in fear of a future she could not foretell. It was a relief when Taquar finally came to see her.
Yet she had never met anyone who frightened her as much as the rainlord did. The cold flatness of his eyes, the calculation in his gaze. He was handsome, true, and sensual, but in a way that disturbed rather than attracted, and there was no heart there, none.
Waterless souls, how could Shale have lived with only this man for company for so long?
She faced him from the far side of the room, at first unable, in her terror, to speak. Behind him, two other men entered carrying a small desk, a chair and some writing implements. They placed these at Taquar's side and left the room. "I want you to write a letter for me," he said without preamble.
She ran her tongue over her dry lips. "Who-who to?" She put her hands behind her back to hide the way they shook, and wondered if he carried a knife like the one he had used on Amethyst.
"To your friend Shale Flint."
Her relief was so intense she nearly dropped where she stood. Shale was alive. And Taquar did not have him.
When she did not move or speak, he beckoned her to the chair. "Sit down. You can write, I believe?"
She had started to move forward, but stopped dead then. "How-how can you know that?" Her fear was so tangible she was wearing it like an extra skin.
"There is little I don't know about you, child. I have even spoken to your sister. Viviandra, is it?"
"She's not my sister."
"No? She seems to think she is."
"Her parents took me in. No more than that." Have you hurt her? She did not dare ask the question aloud. For Vivie's sake, she did not dare show an interest.
"Hmm. No matter." He indicated the chair. "Sit. This is not a hard letter to write, because every bit will be the truth. You can put it in your own words. I don't care how you say it."
She sat and pulled the parchment towards her. "And if I refuse?" She had to put her hands flat on the desktop to stop their trembling. Her palms left damp marks on the bab wood. Once I write it, will you kill me?
"It matters little. I could write it myself, saying the same things. I just thought that if you put pen to parchment, it might have a little more immediacy. I want you to tell Shale that you are my prisoner. Tell him how that came about. Tell him that I have told you that I will kill you slowly and unpleasantly unless he finds some way to escape Breccia City and come to me. Make it sound a little dramatic, if you would. Then tell him that a man called Bankor, an apothecary on the tenth level of Breccia, will help him escape if he needs help. I think that's all." He gave her a faint smile that was bone-chilling in its indifference. "Simple."
"Why haven't you done this before?" she asked. Anything to defer the moment of decision as to whether to acquiesce or not.
He blinked in surprise at her temerity. "That is none of your business!"
She stared back.
He chuckled. "Ah, why not? I wanted Granthon to teach him cloudshifting first. Once he knows how, he is of use to me. And I have heard that Granthon now has help shifting clouds, so I assume Shale is now a stormlord. It is time to get him back."
"He won't take any notice of a letter," she said, amazed that she sounded so matter-of-fact. The thumping of her heart was painful; the sound of it drummed in her body. Surely he could hear it. "Why should he? I scarcely know him."
"We shall see."
"Well," she said, "I hope you don't really mean it. It is not particularly nice to be told that you are going to be tortured to death. Shale won't care, but I do." Bravado. Stupid. It wouldn't get her anywhere.
He laughed again. "Not nice? I am not a particularly nice man, Terelle."
"Where's Russet?" she asked. "Did you kill him?"
He shrugged. "I have no interest in him as long as he lies quiet. My seneschal will kill him if he turns up, though-just to tidy things up."
He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertips. She drew her head back sharply, but the idea of standing up again, of moving out of his reach, died when she saw the look in his eyes. Huckman. It was Huckman all over again. The horror of having her first-night sold. The revulsion and the terror back again.
He brushed her hair away from her face, sliding his hand down her cheek, outlining her lips with his thumb. This time she did not move, other than letting her eyes fall to the sheet of paper on the desk. When his fingers dropped away-an eternity later-she opened the ink well, dipped in the pen and began to write. As she worked, he stood at her shoulder and played with a lock of her hair. His touch slid up and down, feather light, stroking the strands over his forefinger, turning her hair this way and that so that the rich brown of it was burnished by morning sunlight patching through the latticework. To sit still and not flinch away took all her will; but she had nothing left for resistance. Nothing.
I'm not brave, she thought. I don't even know how to begin to be brave.
And so she wrote the letter exactly as he had asked for it to be written. When she had finished, she handed it to him wordlessly, with a shaking hand. And part of her expected to die violated, there in that room. Against her will, her glance flickered to the bed. Then back to the sword he wore.
He read the letter through and smiled once more. "Your spelling is original," he remarked, "but it is a good letter. I like the wobbly writing; it will be good for him to see your fear. We will see if it has the desired result."
She shook her head. "I just told you it won't." She remained seated, staring at the desktop. "Shale is not a fool, and he doesn't care about me."
"Stand up, Terelle," he said.
She did as he asked, without looking at him. She knew she was trembling but was unable to control it.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Reluctantly, she raised her head, to find that if she stared straight ahead, she was gazing at his mouth. When did I get so tall? she asked herself in inane surprise. I don't remember growing up.
He put his hands on either side of her face and raised her chin so her gaze met his. "I am not a cruel man, Terelle, only a ruthless one. I get no particular pleasure from hurting others and will not do so unless it brings me profit. I would rather keep you here until you have grown up a little more, to an age when I would find pleasure in your company. When you are old enough to understand your own sensuality." He bent and kissed her full on the mouth.