Rialla leaned back against the wall and shook her head. "I'm not doing this for you, Laeth; proving your innocence is a side benefit, but that's all it is. If Winterseine gains the power of your brother's estate and title, what happens to the alliance?"
"It fails, as he intends it to," Laeth bit out angrily. "Slavery remains a part of Darranian culture. That's tragic, but slavery has been around a long time. Eliminating it in Darran isn't going to stop it elsewhere. Plague you, Ria, it's not worth the risk of your freedom."
"What freedom?" asked Rialla intensely. "I am a slave. I spend all of my time trying to prove to myself that I am not."
"Nonsense," commented Tris. Rialla hadn't noticed when he entered the room; he had dispensed with the magelight. "You were supposed to come straight here, not engage in a series of highly unnecessary heroics, and lead the hold guards on a white stag hunt all over the countryside while we sat here and worried. A slave does as she's told."
Laeth snickered. "I keep trying to tell her that, but she doesn't listen."
Rialla smiled, enjoying the exchange—but not accepting it. They didn't know how insidious the slave mentality was, the fear of being beaten or worse: the need to please the Master.
"Did you clean your arm?" she asked.
Tris nodded. "I can't get the bandage tight, though. It's in an awkward place." He handed a long, narrow cloth to Rialla.
She hesitated then said, "I'll need some light."
He produced another light, and she wrapped the cotton tightly around his upper arm.
"This looks like you were raked with claws," she commented.
"We ran into something in the tower," said Laeth. "I didn't notice whether it had claws or not."
"Something that smelled like it came from a swamp," added Tris. "Apparently someone wanted to make certain that Laeth would die."
"I told Lord Winterseine I was going to stop Lord Jarroh," said Marri hesitantly from the bed, "even if I had to sleep with Jarroh to do it."
Laeth started laughing. "I bet you had him convinced that you were a mouse all this time. Did you call him a stupid mule too?"
"No," said Marri, "I called him a murderer. I knew that you hadn't killed Karsten: you don't have it in you to commit such an act. The next most logical suspect was Winterseine. Especially since he was working so hard to convince everyone that you were the guilty one."
"I wonder what he sent after Marri," mused Rialla. "I think that you'd better take her with you to Sianim, Laeth."
"Yes," he agreed, "I had intended to do so. I wish you would come with us."
Rialla shook her head again. "No."
"I'll tell Ren what you are doing. He ought to be able to find you and get you out, if you can't do it on your own." Laeth obviously wasn't happy, but he knew her well enough to understand that he couldn't change her mind.
"Thank you," said Rialla.
"I suppose, then, that we had best be out of here," said Laeth briskly.
"Let me get some things together," said Tris, heading to the front room. "I've got some sturdy clothes that might fit the lady, if she's not too choosey. I wondered what I was going to do with them when the farmer gave them to me for healing his ewe. I've traded bread as well. It should only take me a moment to find everything."
True to his word, Tris took only a short time to pack a pair of large saddlebags. He hefted the load and handed it to Laeth.
With the bags over his shoulder, Laeth took Rialla's hand and kissed it with a courtier's grace.
Rialla patted his cheek gently with her free hand, and then shoved him on the shoulder hard. "Get going before they find those horses. Keep it to a walk if you can; they've had a hard night. If you bear northeast into Reth, you should be safe enough; most of the soldiers are searching in the southeast, toward Sianim."
"I'd planned on it," he said. "I have some friends in Reth that we can stay with and rest the horses. Luck to you, Ria."
"And to you," she replied.
Laeth turned to Tris. "Thank you for your aid this night."
Tris shrugged it off. "If you and your lady reach Sianim in safety, that will be thanks enough."
Tris followed them out, saying that he could conceal the obvious tracks and if anyone saw him wandering around in the dark, they would think nothing of it. There were several plants that were more potent if picked at night.
Alone in the cottage, Rialla went back to the bedroom and fell on the bed with a moan; she couldn't believe how exhausted she felt. She closed her eyes and couldn't seem to open them; she groaned when Tris roused her again.
"Sorry, I know," he said apologetically. "But I have to get you cleaned up before someone wonders why a badly wounded slave is covered with mud and tree limbs." As he spoke, he pulled off her borrowed clothes.
She was just far enough out of her stupor to know that she should be objecting to his actions, but couldn't seem to find the energy to do it. He wiped her down with a damp cloth and put her slave tunic back on with minimal help from her.
It worried her to be so sluggish, and she fought free long enough to say in a frantic voice, "What's wrong with me?"
"Shh, it's all right. Healing is very wearing on the body. Normally after what I did, you would sleep for a whole day rather than leading a pack of hunt-mad guards on a will-o'-the-wisp chase." As he spoke, he took a comb and began working it through her hair, ignoring her irritable complaints when he tugged too hard. "We've got to get the rest of the leaves out."
Finally he laid her down in the bed, but he didn't cover her. Instead he sat beside her and said, "Rialla. Wake up, just one more time. Come on, sweetheart."
Responding to the urgency of his voice, she just managed it. The dawn lit his craggy face, and she could read the reluctance in it.
"If they see that I've healed your leg, they're going to be suspicious." He seemed to be having trouble with what he was saying.
"We need to give them a slave with a wounded leg," she said.
Tris nodded.
Rialla worked up the energy to smile. "If you have a knife, I'll do it."
He shook his head. "No need for anything so crude, but it's still going to hurt."
Her eyes closed again, but she laughed anyway. "Give me a minute and I doubt that I'd feel it if a mule kicked me."
She was wrong. When he reopened it, she cried out— too tired to be tough.
He carefully set stitches to keep it from scarring, then covered the wound with a numbing salve and wiped the involuntary tears from her cheek with his thumb.
"All right now?" he asked.
She nodded and closed her eyes and didn't open them again for several hours.
Chapter Six
The sun was almost finished with its journey to the west when Rialla woke up. She still felt tired and her leg ached. With the instinct of the hunted, she knew that some noise had roused her from her healing slumber. She closed her eyes again and listened.
Someone was in the outer room; she could hear them talking. As they came closer to her room, she distinguished Winterseine's voice. She sat up and waited for the door to open.
Terran led the way, followed by Winterseine and Tris.
"May I see the wound?" asked Winterseine. "Not that I doubt your skill, healer, but I want to see it for myself. If she is going to be badly scarred, she will be of no use to me."
Without a word Tris threw back her covers and cut the unbleached cloth off her leg. The inflammation was gone and neat stitches ran the length of her thigh. It wasn't healed, but it was obviously no longer serious.
Winterseine looked impressed. "You do good work, healer. What did you use to draw the poison?"
Tris stared at him long enough to be insolent, then said, "A poultice."
Winterseine smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We all have our trade secrets, don't we?"
"When will she be able to travel?" asked Terran, breaking the tension in the room. Rialla had forgotten that Terran was there; he had a way of fading into the background.
"It depends on how you are traveling," answered Tris civilly enough. "She can ride in about a se'ennight. If you have a wagon, you could try it in two or three days, though five would be better. In a se'ennight the risk of infection will be significantly lower."
Lord Winterseine nodded and ran a finger down the stitches, pushing to test for hidden infection. Rialla knew that her face retained its slave-impassive expression, but she could feel Tris's sudden rage. Startled by the first specific emotion she'd caught from the healer, she shifted her gaze momentarily to look at him. There was nothing more in his face than there had been a minute before; it appeared that she wasn't the only one capable of hiding emotions. She lowered her protective barriers, but the brief flash of anger had faded and he was as veiled as ever.
"Very well," said Lord Winterseine, "we'll be back in a week for her. It will probably take at least that much time before everything else is cleared up anyway."
"Remember, Father," said Terran's meek voice. "We have to leave soon," he continued. "There is a shipment expected at Winterseine hold a fortnight from now. We can wait a week easily enough, but no longer than that."
Rialla started and stared at Terran, forgetting her role for a moment—luckily no one noticed. She focused her gift tightly and probed, but the results were the same. Lord Winterseine was opaque, but she could sense his presence. Tris she was aware of on another level, but she couldn't sense Terran's presence at all.
"Of course." Lord Winterseine turned to the healer and said, "I hope it is not an inconvenience for you to keep her here until we leave."
"No," replied Tris. "I'll total your bill and have it sent to you. When you have paid it, you may have your slave back."
"Certainly," said Winterseine. "Send it in care of my son." He walked out, followed by both Terran and the healer.
Rialla stretched thoughtfully. She'd never met someone whom she couldn't sense at all. She was running into several things that were odd: first the healer and now Terran. It could be that her abilities were not as functional as she'd thought. They certainly seemed to have a few quirks.
Tris had started through the doorway from the other room when another knock sounded. He smiled and shrugged, closing the door behind him.
Rialla listened as he put salve on a little girl's injured puppy, set a farmer's broken arm and arranged for someone to help the farmer out until the arm healed. A woman came in mumbling something about her kid (Rialla wasn't sure if it was a goat or a child) and Tris left with her.
Rialla slept as long as she could, then set up imaginary games of Steal the Dragon until she grew bored. Tris stopped in briefly as the sun was setting, but was called out again by the smith, whose wife was having difficulty delivering her third child.
Rialla threw the covers back restlessly and limped to the window. The sill was as wide as a narrow bench; she perched on it and stared into the night sky. It was nominally better than counting the fifty-seven boards that served as the ceiling, held down by four hundred and twelve nails.
Rialla fidgeted and finally got up to gimp across the floor again. She lacked any method of lighting the lanterns on the wall; she knew that Tris had flint and steel around, but it was hidden well enough that she couldn't find it.
She searched both rooms twice, more for something to do than because she needed light. The moon was shining through the window, giving her almost as much illumination as a lantern would have.
Finally, she went to the wall in the bedroom. It took her a while to find the catch for the hidden closet, but not as long as it took to overcome her scruples and look. She salved her conscience by reasoning that if Tris were worried about her rummaging around, he wouldn't have shown her the secret door in the first place. At last the door slid open, divulging what it hid.
Most of the weapons she had used or at least seen used, but she was mystified by a short, forked stick with a strip of catgut connecting each prong of the fork.
"It's a spear thrower." Tris sounded weary as he observed her from the open door and waved on the lights. "The man who made it for me called it an atladl. If you look in the closet, you should find five small spears that match the design on the haft. The end of the spear fits on the thong, and you throw it almost the way that you'd throw a javelin. It's not quite as accurate as a bow and arrow, but it's faster to use and easier to hide from the gamekeepers."
Rialla nodded, trying not to look as guilty as she felt, and slipped the weapon back into the closet. She got to her feet easily, though she grimaced when her weight was on her bad leg.
"Have you had anything to eat?" she asked, when she got a closer look at his face. "I took the liberty of raiding your larder. There's a plate of cheese and sausage on the foot of the bed."
"Thanks," he said, sinking down beside the plate and looking at it with faint interest. He must have washed off in the creek, because his linen shirt was wet on the sleeves and collar.
"How did the birthing go?" she asked, sitting on the floor when it became apparent that he wasn't going to move for a while.
"Not good," he said and shook his head, staring at the piece of cheese he held in his hand, as if it had turned green. "There were twins and the first one was a breech. It died before I got there. The second one is small, but the smith's cottage is clean and warm; he should be fine."
Rialla could see that the death bothered him more than weariness. She took a piece of goat's cheese and nibbled at it while she tried to think of something to say to distract him.
"Tell me," she asked, "how did you become the healer here? All the stories say that shapeshifters keep to their own kind."
He looked at her, and faint amusement crept into his weary eyes. "I am not a shapeshifter. Shapeshifters get their amusement by eating innocent young virgins who stupidly wander alone in the forest. Mind you," he said, taking a bite of the cheese with more enthusiasm than before, "that's not to say that they don't deserve it. Stupid young girls who get caught alone in the forest fall prey to anything that crosses their paths, be the beast animal, human or shapeshifter. The moral of the story is," he took a piece of sausage, "don't be a stupid young virgin."
She grinned at him and said, "Thanks for the advice. I'll remember that. So what are you, and why are you here? I'd think that if you were going to fraternize with humans, you would at least pick a group of people who weren't liable to burn you at the stake if they caught you working magic."
He snatched another round of sausage and shrugged. "I'm healing people."
She rolled her eyes and grabbed the plate, setting it behind her. "No more food until you tell." Playing was a long-forgotten art, but the twinkle in his eyes encouraged her.
He looked forlornly at the remains of his piece of sausage and whined, "I'll starve."
She showed no signs of softening, especially since he was looking less tired now, the grim lines around his mouth fading. "Not if you tell me what you're doing here."
He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms behind his head. "Torture will never make me divulge the secrets I keep."
She took a piece of cheese and waved it invitingly. "How about bribery?"
"That might work," he conceded. "Why don't you try it?"
It took her three times before the food that she tossed at him made it to his mouth.
"All right," he surrendered. "I am a sylvan."
Rialla waited but he didn't elaborate. "What's a sylvan?"
"Where's my bribe?" he replied.
She hit him in the nose with a piece of cheese. He caught it before it hit the bed and examined it with satisfaction before eating it.
"Sylvans are users of natural magic like the shape-shifters, though our talents lie in different directions. They are closer to the animals of the forests, while we are guardians of the greenery. We are a simple folk, and it is easy enough for us to blend in with the humans, so our enclaves are not hidden the way those of the shapeshifters are." He paused and closed his eyes, leaning against the wall, but he caugh
t the small piece of hard sausage she threw at him anyway.
"There are not many enclaves, though," he said finally, rubbing his beard. "Over the centuries they have died out, one by one. The enclave that I belonged to is the only one left in Darran. We claimed to be a religious order, worshipping Naslen, lord of the forests—I suppose that the story is more true than not. There are many such groups of humans, caught in the past, holding to the old ways and the old languages. They are tolerated, even in Darran, because they have always been there. The sylvans blend in with the others.
"My enclave is in a minor estate of a great noble—so minor that in three generations the lord had not visited it. The old lord died, and his son decided to visit each of his new holdings; I believe that he had some debts, and was evaluating his lands for later sale.
"I was walking alone, and I came upon a child; a human girl-child that some of the lord's friends had found earlier. Her body was badly broken." Tris looked grim.
"I knew her, had watched her grow from a toddler to an explorer. Her mother was an excellent weaver, and I had often gone to the human village to trade food for cloth. They had four grown boys, and this girl-child. You have to understand, Rialla. The reason that our enclave had survived as long as it had was that it was forbidden to work magic around humans. Absolutely forbidden. I knew this, and understood the reason for it."
His voice dropped almost to a whisper as he continued. "But this was a child, a child that I knew and liked. She was dying as I watched. So I healed her body, until there was no evidence that any violence had occurred. Rape is as much a wound of the soul as a wound of the body, and I gifted her with forgetfulness. With luck no one would have ever known, not even the child.
"When I was through healing her, I woke her, teased her about sleeping in the woods and escorted her home. Her father I took aside and warned that I had seen one of the lord's guests eyeing her. He assured me that he would keep her in the cottage until the lord and his entourage were gone.
"When I returned to the enclave, I found that someone had seen me violate our law. I was tried and sentenced to banishment. They took me far from the enclave and bound me with magic and rope. If I managed to free myself, I could live—but never be welcomed in any enclave."
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