aThe tattoo?a she asked.

aIs on your face. Iall contact you at night, when the others are sleeping. You are an empath, but youave spoken about being able to read peopleas thoughts as well as their emotions. Can you contact me that way if you need me?a She shook her head. aMost people I could, but I canat even read your emotionsa"let alone project a message to you.a He raised an eyebrow, then nodded with an odd smile. aNo, of course you couldnat.a He hesitated momentarily and then said, aBut I know a way to help.a He slipped his boot knife out and examined it before he ran his thumb almost casually over the finely honed edge. Rialla didnat realize that he was working magic until he said something in a foreign tongue and touched her mouth with the fresh wound. Involuntarily she licked the blood off her lips. She felt as if shead sipped distilled alcohol; it burned its way deep into her body, leaving her toes and fingertips buzzing and her vision blurred.

Before she had time to react, he touched the knife to the side of her neck and bent his head. She felt the soft, quick touch of his lips and the brush of his beard before he backed away. He touched her neck again briefly, this time with his fingers, and the sting of the cut disappeared. Staring at him, she touched her skin where he and his knife had touched. The wound was gone.

aTry it now,a he said and his voice sounded different to hera"shadowed with magic and moonlight, though the sun still lit the trees outside the window.

She reached out to him with her gift, carefully, not knowing what difference his magic had wrought. At first it seemed as though nothing had changed. As before, she could touch him, but it was like touching a solid object with her thoughts: she could see him, but not what he was. She pushed gently, but he remained opaque. Just as she started to back away, Rialla was sucked in.

It was too far, too fast. She was dizzy, cut adrift among memories and feelings that she couldnat distinguish from her own. She was accustomed to receiving emotions from most people, but from Tris she was getting memories, thoughts and dreams as well.

Rialla. His mindspeech seemed too strong, but it gave her something to balance herself.

Rialla pulled herself back until the contact was not so strong, his warmth soothing rather than burning. His thought-voice was tightly formed, arguing that he had communicated mind to mind before.

She had been able to reach her father in this manner, but she wasnat used to the communication being two-way. Tris, she said, what did you do that allowed me to touch you this way?

She caught faint nuances of emotion that were quickly tucked away, but not before she caught a hint of guilt and excitement.

Iall tell you sometime. You can contact me now?

She tested her gifts on him warily. Anytime. I donat know how close I have to be, but this is easier than any other mindspeech Iave ever attempted.

Sylvans speak with each other in such a manner, he said.

Like this? asked Rialla in surprise. She sent him a picture of the intimacy that this form of communication offered hera"the complex emotions and thoughts that she picked up when he talked.

No, he said, startled. Can you see so much?

Sensing his unease, she withdrew even further, the memory of Laethas outrage at her empathic gift fresh in her mind. Usually she had no trouble leaving the subjects of her touch their privacy, but Trisas stray thoughts tended to brush against her without warning. Finally she removed herself altogether, reconstructing her barriers until he was once again opaque.

Tris gave her a particularly enigmatic look and said, aNow if you need help, you can contact me.a She wasnat capable of doing more than moving her head to indicate her agreement. When the sound of a woman calling from the front room pierced the intimate atmosphere that somehow had developed, Rialla felt extremely grateful. She desperately needed time to figure out what Tris had done.

THE MORNING DAWNED clear and warm. Rialla was waiting quietly when Lord Winterseine entered her sanctuary. Her face was impassive, and it didnat change when her master set the heavy training collar around her neck.

She didnat flinch when chain-linked metal cuffs were closed on her wrists, pulling her arms behind her. A second chain was run from the wrist chain to the collar, further restricting her movement. Winterseine attached a leather leash to the front of her collar and led her out.

It was easy not to react to the restraints; shead had them on before and had expected Lord Winterseine to use them. What she had not expected was the hot rage emanating from the healer, though he appeared calm and remote, as he always was with the Darranian nobles. She tried to close his reaction off, before it affected her as well, but it wasnat as easy as it should have been.

Apparently, whatever channel Tris had forged between them was not easily closed. She sent a surge of reassurance to Tris, and then tried to reestablish her privacy.

Terran gave her a hand in mounting. It was difficult under the best of circumstances to get on a horse without the use of hands. Since Rialla was distracted with the task of suppressing the persistent connection with Tris, she appreciated Terranas help.

As they rode away, she could feel the healeras eyes following them into the trees.

THERE WERE MANY Darranians who had lost everything in the wars with Reth. They roamed the forests extracting tolls from those foolish enough to venture through without sufficient force. Winterseineas entourage was large enough to discourage most raiding parties. Besides Winterseine and his son, there were a score of fighters, more or less, and two servantsa"one of which was the man who Rialla suspected had poisoned Karsten. His name, she recalled, was Tamas. Apparently the dark-skinned girl was the only slave theyad brought to Lord Karstenas hold, because Rialla was the only slave in the party. Four men rode in front, followed closely by Lord Winterseine and his son Terran. Rialla and the servants rode next, then the rest of the party.

Rialla knew that Winterseine was a formidable warrior: it was one of the reasons for his success as a slaver. Looking at his son, she decided that Terran might be as good. Certainly he bestrode his battle-trained stallion with the ease of long practice, and the easy way that head tossed her on her horse argued that he had strength.

Winterseineas man Tamas held the lead rein for Riallaas horse. Like her, he was mounted on a lighter-bred saddle horse. He wasnat armed with anything more formidable than the heavy whip that was coiled on his saddle, but Rialla had seen such a whip wielded at Sianim, and didnat underestimate the damage he could inflict with it.

They traveled south through the rolling hills of southern Darran. Everywhere, Rialla could see the toll of the last war. Many of the farmhouses had been recently constructed over old foundations. Several times she saw the burned-out remains of dwellings that had not been rebuilt, perhaps because there was no one left to do so.

They stopped near one of the charred cottages shortly before sunset. Camp was set up with a minimum of fuss. Winterseine used the leash on the training collar to stake Rialla to the ground near the fire, where she would be easily visible throughout the night. He didnat remove the bindings from her arms.

None of the restraints were overly tight, but her arms had been in the same position for the better part of the day and her shoulder was beginning to ache. Between that and her throbbing leg, Rialla decided that a decent nightas rest was doubtful. Adding insult to injury, she had the choice of lying with her face in the dirt, or with her weight on her awkwardly bound arms.

Rialla.

She thought she must have jumped, but if she had no one had noticed. She wasnat used to someone speaking in her mind. Tris?

Yes. How is your leg?

She tested it cautiously. It hurts, but no more than it did.

Good.

She waited, but he didnat say anything more. With a resigned sigh she rolled on her face. To her surprise she fell into a restful doze that lasted through the night.

THE NEXT MORNING, Terran was busy elsewhere, so it was the servant Tamas who boosted Rialla onto her mount. She hadnat paid much attention to him the first day of the trip, but his touch forced his emotions and some of his thoughts onto her, leaving her feeling unclean. It wasnat simple lust he was feeling, but something more bestiala"he fed his desire on degradation and pain. Even after she was on the horse, he found a thousand reasons for touching her.

By late that afternoon the sky had darkened, and Winterseine increased the pace to a trot to avoid the threatening storm. The horse Rialla was riding had a trot that threatened to rattle her teeth loose, and what it did to her aching head wasnat pleasanta"but the faster speed limited Tamasas fondling, so she felt it was a vast improvement.

They sheltered for the night in a monastery dedicated, ironically enough, to the god of storms. Most of the worshippers of the old gods were confined to a few old temples like this one. It was a primitive fortress made of the dark native stone and rendered even more dismal by the gloominess of the darkened sky.

Several monks came to take their horses, and Rialla dismounted easily enough by throwing one leg in front of her and sliding down her horseas side. She hoped to avoid Tamasas help at all costs.

The storm god disliked women in his sanctuary, but the good monks had built a small outbuilding as a concession to secular parties who needed shelter and would pay the monks generously for the privilege. The hut locked from the outside, so that there was no chance of females wandering into the main buildings and desecrating the temple.

The building was barren and windowless. Rialla supposed that if shead been a noblewoman, a cot would have been found for her and burned when she left. As it was, she would have to make do with the stone floor. There wasnat much chance to look around before the door was shut, leaving her in the darkness. She heard the unmistakable sound of the wooden board being slipped into place on the door.

Rialla sat on the uneven stone floor and closed her eyes with a sigh of relief that she was alone. Shead feared that Tamas was going to be left to guard her, and she didnat want to spend all night fighting him off.

She wasnat sure the actual moment she realized she wasnat alone in the room, or what first alerted her. Before she had time to panic, she realized that she knew who was here.

aTris?a aMmm?a he answered absently, and the collar jerked around her neck as he began unbuckling it.

aHow long have you been here?a aNot too long. You smell like wet horse.a He removed the bands on her arms and Rialla stretched gratefully, almost moaning in the relief of moving her arms freely.

aMy favorite scent,a she replied.

One of Trisas magelights illuminated the barren little chamber.

aNot exactly cozy,a he commented.

aIt is clean, which is better than the menas accommodations in the sanctuary are likely to be,a she said, patting the stone beside her in invitation.

Instead, Tris sat facing her and took off the pack he carried on his back. He rummaged inside it and then pulled out a checkered board and placed it between them.

It was not as elaborate as the one he had at his cottage, but it was functional and they whiled away the afternoon with several games of Dragon. He won them all, but she managed to make him work for it. After the third game he set it aside with visible reluctance.

aI have to turn out the light now,a said Tris. aThough this building is sturdy, I donat doubt that there are enough holes in the mortar that someone might notice the light coming out. You donat want to try to explain how you managed to produce light in here.a He waved his hand and the magelight disappeared.

aI noticed that Winterseineas rat-faced servant was having some difficulty keeping his hands to himself today,a Tris commented. aNow, have you thought about giving the little lecher leading your horse a thorough disgust of you? I would think that empathy would prove useful that way.a She laughed, grateful that somehow his remarks had turned Tamas from threatening to absurd. aIam afraid anything vile I can think up will just excite him more.a aThere is that possibility,a he agreed in thoughtful tones.

Rialla laughed again and found a more restful position. The silence continued comfortably between them until she began to drift asleep.

aHow do you intend to prove Winterseine killed Karsten?a asked Tris abruptly.

She roused herself slightly. aYou mentioned that the dagger that killed Karsten disappeared. If I can find it, any decent wizard can tell who used it.a aWho are you trying to convince?a asked Tris.

aWhat do you mean?a Rialla said. Then she added, aGods, I never thought of that. What Darranian is going to believe anything a wizard says?a She thought for a moment then said, aWhat if I approach it differently? What do you think the regency councilas reaction would be if I proved that Winterseine was a mage? It wouldnat prove Laethas innocence, but I donat think that Winterseine would be allowed to inherit Karstenas lands either. That would leave Lord Jarroh as the most powerful man on the council.a aHow are you going to prove that Winterseine is a mage?a She shook her head, though in the dark he couldnat see her. aI donat know, but Iall find a way.a TRIS WOKE HER early in the morning to replace the restraints before someone came in. Just as he finished the last buckle, they heard the bar being removed.

aTris,a hissed Rialla urgently.

He smiled at her and took a step back until he was against the wall, then made an odd gesture and his features blurred and darkened. Rialla watched fascinated as Tris blended into the wall, the stone coloring overshadowing his own. It altered in subtle tones until the shadows hid any sign that he stood there. Tamas opened the door, pulled Rialla up by one arm and escorted her out, oblivious to the observer left in the stone hut.

It was a cold and miserable day, and the horses were spooky because of a stiff wind that brought strange smells uncomfortably close. Rialla huddled under her cloak and wished vainly that Tamas werenat holding the lead line on her mare.

The sun rose, a dim disk in a gray sky. By the time it had reached the middle of its journey, it was totally obscured by black clouds. When rain began to fall in sheets, the party halted while Terran and Winterseine conferred briefly.

Tamas took advantage of the rest stop to force his horse next to Riallaas.

aI like the pretty ones, the soft ones like you,a he said. aLord Winterseine says if you are not good enough to dance, I can have you before he sends you to his brothel. You wouldnat like it there, but if you pleased me I might keep you.a As he spoke, he rested his hand on her sore leg. Her horse shifted restlessly, dislodging his grip as Riallaas unease communicated itself. Tamas smiled and kneed his horse sideways, following hers.

aNow, whatas getting you all upset?a He pressed his hand against the wound again, this time harder.

It hurt, but Rialla knew her face didnat show it. She knew that her lack of expression disappointed him. She also knew that somewhere nearby, Tris was getting very angry.

Lightning flashed, followed a few seconds later by a low rumble. Her horse and Tamasas reacted with similar violence to the sounda"aided by a touch of empathically projected fear. The other horses danced and jumped, their herd instinct overwhelming training.

Riallaas horse jerked its lead free of Tamasas loose hold and, free of any constraint, put her head between her front legs and kicked. Rialla leaned back, pushing her feet forward. As the mareas hindquarters fell to the ground and propelled the horse sideways, Rialla shifted her weight appropriately. Her empathy let her know what the horse was going to do a moment before the animal moved.

One of the guards caught the flying lead. His firm grip discouraged Riallaas mount; it gave a few halfhearted hops before settling down.

The courser that Tamas rode was more successful at ridding itself of its rider than Riallaas had been, tossing him into a thicket of thorn apple. When he was extracted from the inch-long thorns at last, his wounds were not limited to punctures and scrapesa"his arm hung visibly broken at his side. One of the guardsmen had caught Tamasas horse, and it danced nervously, scattering mud on anything nearby.

Nicely done, commented Tris. I hadnat thought of using the horses.

Thank you, she replied lightly as her horse danced away from Tamasas, dragging the man holding the lead several feet. I . . .

As her horse turned another circle, Rialla got a clear view of Tamas flexing the arm that had been clearly broken only a moment before. Ignoring her distaste, she probed him briefly, but the only pain that Tamas was feeling was from the thorns.

Tris, she asked, did you do that?

Do what? he asked.

When Tamas was thrown, he broke his arm. She sent Tris a picture of what Tamasas arm had looked like. Someone healed it. Was that you?

No. There was a pause and then Tris said, I donat think that anyone here can use green magic; we can usually recognize it in each other. I can usually also tell if someone has used green magic recently, but I donat see it here. Human magicians can set a bone, using magic as a splint, but it requires much power. Inefficient magicians, humans. Then he added thoughtfully, Just how strong is this magician of yours?

He trained with the former aeaMagi, answered Rialla slowly. Can you tell if a human mage has healed Tamasas arm?

A human mage canat heal the arm, explained Tris, he can only set it, like a splint made of magic. He would have to constantly reinforce the spell, and if the magician fell asleep, the magic would cease functioninga"unless he used runes, and I could feel those. I canat feel any magic at all now, but the only human magician Iave been around was Trenna, the woman who bargained for my service. She was only half-trained; I donat know if I could tell if a human mage was working magic.

Rialla thought about what Tris told her. She wondered why Winterseine would be so concerned with Tamasas broken arm that he would drain his magic and pretend to heal it when there was no one to impress but his servantsa"it seemed out of character from what she remembered of her master.

Rialla shivered, and speculated uneasily about magic, human and green. What kind of power, she wondered, would the prophet of a god wield?

SEVEN.

The stone walls of Lord Winterseineas keep loomed darkly over the party of tired riders. Moonlight glinted off the ivy gathered at the base of the outside walls, lending an eeriness to the holdas appearance.

As they crossed the drawbridge, Rialla glanced down into the dark waters of the moat that surrounded the keep. The moat wasnat as rank as most of its kind; Winterseine had it drained once a year and cleaned of debris so it smelled mainly of algae and rotting plants, rather than less wholesome sewage.

The aged boards of the drawbridge creaked under the weight of the horses. The heavy chains that had been used to lift the bridge in times past had fallen limply into the moat, where they rusted and grew long strings of algae.

The entrance to the keep was adequately defended by the heavy iron portcullis that blocked the entrance. As far as Rialla knew, the ancient drawbridge had not been lifted this century. The keep was small and strategically unimportant, so it had escaped most of the ravages of the Rethian wars. Few robbers were desperate enough to take on the experienced fighters that manned the keep now that the war was over, and Winterseine preferred to avoid the petty bickering and feuding that took up so many land-holdersa time and resources.

Rialla was unable to repress a shudder as the heavy ironwork of the portcullis dropped behind them, trapping her inside. For a moment she felt a frantic urge to fight against her bonds. She found herself reaching for Trisas reassuring presence; knowing he was nearby made it easier to continue.

They rode directly to the keep entrance, where grooms waited to take the weary horses. While Winterseine and the rest of the party stopped in the entrance hall, one of the guardsmen escorted Rialla down the stone stairway that led to the holding cells. After making sure she had bread, water and straw in the small room, he removed the wrist manacles and left her alone.

Moonlight drifted in through a small window near the ceiling; its deep-set iron bars crossed the pale stone floora"a constant reminder of the roomas purpose. The sound of water lapping against rock drifted faintly up from the deep hole underneath the sanitation grate in the far corner of the cell.

Rialla looked around with dawning recognition. Shead been given the same holding cell that shead had when they brought her here the first time. For confirmation she knelt by the door and ran her fingers over the stone nearby. Her searching fingers found the crude letters scratched in the granite. It was too dark for her to read what was written there, even if some of the scratches hadnat been too faint to seea"but she didnat need to read the words.

aIsst vah han ona faetha,a she spoke them softly, pronouncing them carefully, as her father had. aWithout faith there is nothing.a Until shead become a slave, they were the only written words she knew, although she had spoken several languages. Her father had worn a gold disk on a chain; inscribed in the disk were those five words, the motto of her clan.

aThis was the cell that they put me in the first time,a she said without looking up, knowing that Tris was behind her. aHow did you come in?a aThrough the wall.a Rialla twisted to look at the solid stone wall. Raising her eyebrows, she looked at Tris.

He shrugged. aStone is not as easy for me to pass through as wood, but if you know how to ask it is not impossiblea"just slow.a She nodded and rose to her feet, uncomfortable with her vulnerable position. aIam glad you came.a aGlad I followed you here, or glad I came to your cell tonight?a She smiled. aBoth actually. I needed to talk to you about Tamasas arm. Can you think of any reason Winterseine would heal it? I donat remember him ever working magic that . . . casually.a It was difficult to see details in the dark little room, but Rialla saw him lift his arm to his face and knew Tris was rubbing his beard.

aIf he were trying to pass himself as a servant of Altis, he might do it to reinforce his position,a he said thoughtfully at last.

aIn front of a group of guards, a servant and a slave?a questioned Rialla.

aEven so,a answered Tris. aIf 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.a Rialla felt something inside her relax with Trisas explanation: facing Winterseine was sufficiently daunting. She would rather not worry about prophets and gods.

aWhere did you leave your horse?a she asked, kicking at the straw until it padded a section of floor.

aWhat horse?a Tris replied.

aYou ran?a hazarded Rialla doubtfully, looking at the heavily muscled healer. In her experience, runners werenat built like blacksmiths.