Rialla shrugged. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought that he had the charisma for demagoguery. He was not the sort of man who could sway a crowd. Though his personal servants were obedient, I don’t think that any of them were particularly loyal to him.”
“Magic?” questioned Laeth.
Rialla shrugged. “You know as much as I do. I’ve heard rumors that the last ae’Magi had such a spell, but you know how that is. There are rumors about magicians and their spells all the time. What I know is that the slave was convinced that her master was the Voice of Altis.”
Laeth gave her a thoughtful look and then said, “You must have had quite a long conversation with this Eastern slave.”
“Actually,” Rialla replied, with a tired smile, “she practically forced it down my throat while I was sleeping. She was an empath, too—maybe stronger than I was.”
“I thought that empaths were supposed to be rare,” complained Laeth, throwing one hand across his brow in the best tradition of court theater.
Rialla gave him a sympathetic look. “We are. She’s the first one I’ve ever met.” She walked to the shuttered windows, saying, “What surprised me most, I think, is that she died still believing the man who enslaved her was the Voice of Altis. I would think that an empath as strong as she was could have told that he was lying.”
“Is it significant that you and this Easterner are both empaths?” asked Laeth seriously.
Rialla thought about his question before answering slowly, “I don’t think so. I’m not sure that my master ever knew I was an empath. I tried to keep it hidden at first—then I lost most of my ability soon after he acquired me.”
She drew a deep breath and switched to the point that she had been aiming at. “Laeth, if he is the Voice of Altis, he has good reason to want to stop an alliance between Darran and Reth. He could do that by killing your brother.”
Laeth nodded. “I know. But it sounds as if he just arrived last night, after the attempt on Karsten.”
“If he’s got the kind of connections that would get him invited here, he could have the influence necessary to arrange an attempt on Karsten.” Recalling the poisoning attempt brought another memory to the surface; Rialla snapped her fingers. “I forgot to ask you last night, what do you know about Tris, the local healer?”
“You mean besides the fact that he likes the Darranian aristocracy about as much as you do?” Laeth grinned at her but continued more soberly, “He showed up here sometime after I left. I never met him before last night, but I have heard a lot about him. If you believe even half of what he is credited with, he has the gods’ own power over death. After the way he managed to keep Karsten alive, I might almost believe it.”
“He stopped me and offered to help us,” said Rialla.
“You didn’t tell him about what we’re doing here?” asked Laeth incredulously.
She gave him an insulted look. “Of course not. He was waiting near the stairs to see how hard you hit me—at least I think that was what he was doing. When he saw that you hadn’t done any damage at all, he got curious and started to ask questions. I told him who you were; he told me to ask him for help if we need it. I thought that you must know him for your name to spark such a response.”
Laeth frowned, then shook his head. “No. He didn’t strike me as familiar when I saw him last night; I have a good memory for faces. He’s supposed to be a relative of one of the villagers, but he certainly doesn’t look Darranian.”
Rialla thought about her impression of the man. “I think he might be a mage as well. He acted rather oddly, as if he were working a spell.”
“First empaths and now mages,” grumbled Laeth, without any true distress. He rubbed a thoughtful hand through his hair. “Where do you think that he fits into all of this?”
She tilted her head in consideration. “I don’t know, who can understand mages—or healers either for that matter? He wasn’t faking his concern when he was checking my face for bruises. I can’t see him poisoning Lord Karsten and then saving him at the last minute, unless he’s trying to get something from Karsten. If that were the case, wouldn’t he have been more courteous when he was here?” She sighed. “I doubt he is working against us, but I can’t fathom why he would be supporting us—even if he knew what we’re doing here.
“Uh, Rialla, sweetheart,” interjected Laeth mildly, with a twinkle in his eye. “Have you looked in a mirror recently?”
Rialla snorted at him, much in the manner of her beloved horses. “He offered his help when he found out who you were. It had nothing to do with me.”
She opened the window shutters and said, “I’d better get down to the kitchens and bring up breakfast before it’s all gone.”
She ducked into the small closet that served as a dressing room, grabbed a clean tunic and put it on, along with the blank face that went with it.
The halls were quiet; most of the aristocracy had spent a late night dancing and wouldn’t rise for a few more hours. They were more open while they slept, and Rialla caught a stray emotion here and there as she walked, far more than she usually could. Tension coiled in her, and she stopped in the empty corridor. Belatedly she realized that she’d been receiving scattered impressions since last night—as if the other empath’s death had ripped apart some of the scarring that hindered her gifts.
With skills grown rusty with disuse, Rialla managed to raise a shield in her mind against the fragments of emotions that touched her. She could remove the protection if she chose, and explore the talent that was returning to her—but she wasn’t sure that she wanted to do so.
She would never have thought she would be as frightened by the threat of her talent’s return as she had been by its loss. Rialla swallowed and began walking, maintaining her outward serenity with an effort.
Rialla brought Laeth breakfast and helped him into the gaudy full court dress. When he left, she set about cleaning the suite. Keeping busy kept her from terrorizing herself with thoughts of her former master. Energetically she folded clothes and hunted out the dark corners that tended to collect shoes and miscellaneous small items, so they wouldn’t be left behind when they packed.
When she had done all she could do to their rooms, she sat cross-legged on the bed and dropped the barrier she’d imposed on her gift. With that done, she made herself relax and listen to the feelings passing invisibly through the stone and wood of the keep.
Since she first realized that the old scars that had shielded her empathy had been disturbed, she had felt exposed and vulnerable. That could not be allowed. Sitting on Laeth’s bed with her empathy working better than it had since she’d been enslaved, part of her waited for the return of the pain that had destroyed her ability. By the time she’d finished with the exercise, her tunic was soaked in sweat, and she stank like old fear.
With disgust, she washed off with the water left in the basin by the bed and changed into a fresh tunic. She’d just pulled the end of the tunic over her hips when Laeth burst into the room to change for lunch.
He took one look at her and said, “Are you all right?”
Rialla nodded. Being Laeth, bless him, he didn’t push her.
She helped him don his riding jacket for the scheduled hunt. Darranians changed their clothes five or six times a day, and the riding jacket was particularly ridiculous. It was cut so close that Laeth couldn’t put it on alone, and once on it restricted his mobility severely. Just the thing to wear while riding spirited horses through fields and over fences at high speeds.
Laeth was so busy replying to her snide comments on Darranian fashions that he forgot his riding whip when he left the room, with an exaggerated swagger that left Rialla snickering. The whip wasn’t necessary as far as the horse was concerned, but fashion dictated it be carried.
Rather than make him come all the way back to the room, Rialla snatched it up and trotted down the stairs to the entrance hall, where the riders would all gather and talk before they got on the horses.