Rialla had learned how to train horses from her father. The horses he trained were widely sought after, for he’d had a fine touch with animals. Often he staged exhibitions in which he would take some vicious beast and turn it into a usable animal. He brought prestige to their small clan, so that Rialla’s clan rarely had to worry about money, and were free to travel where many other clans were forbidden.
Rialla had been born an empath, able to perceive the feelings and sometimes thoughts of the people and animals around her. It was a rare talent, but not unheard of among her people, and it was valued highly by a people who lived on the whims of others. Almost as soon as her ability was recognized, her father had her working with the horses, using her empathy to enhance his training and teaching her to control her gift at the same time.
Because of her value to the Traders, the women’s council and her father contracted an advantageous marriage for her with a wealthier clan. It had been at the betrothal festival that the outlander had come among them.
There was nothing unusual about his presence because everyone was welcome at festivals, even nonclansmen. The only reason that Rialla noticed him at all was that he was one of the few people she’d met that she couldn’t use her empathy to read. She had felt his eyes on her as she danced for her betrothed. She couldn’t recall the boy’s face now, though she remembered thinking him handsome.
After the festival the Trade clans split up to travel again, with the understanding that they would meet at the same place in exactly one year for the marriage, as was customary.
Two nights later the slavers attacked Rialla’s clan, killing the men and the old people—and taking the younger women and children as slaves. It was the outlander who led the slavers. She could still feel the first touch of his hand on her face. It was the first time she’d been able to read him with her talent: her first taste of a Darranian slave trainer.
Rialla shuddered heavily against the cold granite of the stable wall, ignoring the tears that ran down her cheek. If she hoped to function as a Darranian slave, she would have to cope with the past.
After all these years the slave trainer’s face wasn’t clear in her memory—a slave didn’t look at a person’s face often—but his voice haunted her nightmares.
On the third day of her captivity, Rialla, huddled in the small group of women and children that were the remnants of her clan, watched as a rider entered the camp. He was greeted warmly by her captor. She couldn’t understand the language they spoke to each other, but the rider’s name was familiar: Geoffrey ae’Magi, the Archmage.
Rialla heard later that the Archmage was killed shortly after this visit; she had no sorrow for his death.
One by one the children and women had been taken to the tent where the slave trainer stayed; only Rialla and two others were spared. She didn’t see what the ae’Magi and the slaver did to the remaining captives, but she heard their screams and felt their anguish in empathic detail. The horror of her knowledge ravaged her mind until it closed down to protect itself, leaving her with only a shadow of her former gift. What little empathic ability remained after the Archmage’s visit was so erratic it was all but useless.
For a slave, though, it was probably just as well.
For two years Rialla was trained as a dancer, and she was rewarded with the tattoo at the end. Dancers were popular in Darran and she was good, very good. She was treated well and allowed more freedom than most slaves, who were intended for brothels or worse, but she was still a slave.
For five years she danced as her master bade. Finally, there came a day when the opportunity to escape presented itself and she ran.
She killed a man when she escaped. Even the slight remnants of her empathy had been enough to make her cry out with the pain of his death. Nevertheless, with shaking hands she searched the dead man and took his knife and what little money he had. She stole a horse from the stables and fled.
She escaped over the border to Reth, where she used the knife, heated in her camp fire until it glowed, to rid herself of the hateful tattoo.
At the next town she traded her horse for an unbroken gelding and a handful of coins. Eventually, she made her way to Sianim, where her skill with horses earned her a home. The mercenary city-state had offered her refuge, but now it offered even more.
She had been given the opportunity to take something from the slavers, if she had the courage to do it.
Safe in the stables of Sianim, Rialla let her hand rub the scar on her cheek. If she agreed to return to Reth, she would have to let them tattoo her again, over the scar. The scar would brand her as an escaped slave; as such she would be watched even closer than most. Something could go wrong and she would be forced to remain a slave; a second escape would be virtually impossible.
The whisper of sound alerted her that she was no longer alone. She wiped her cheeks, but knew it would be obvious she’d been crying. Drawing a deep breath she turned to see who had joined her.
The man who stood in the dim light of the stable was of average height. He had dark hair, darker eyes and skin that was tanned by many days out in the sun. His build was slight, but he moved with the trained grace of a warrior.
Rialla raised her chin in an unconscious gesture of defiance that was not lost on the man watching her. “Laeth.”
He nodded a greeting and leaned against a stall partition across from the bench where she sat, leaving the width of the aisle between them.
It was virtually unheard of for a Darranian lord to train at Sianim. Though the schools of warcraft at Sianim were famous, Darranians kept to themselves. When Laeth had come to Sianim for training two years ago, Rialla had avoided him until they were assigned the same instructor for hand-to-hand combat.
The instructor didn’t speak Darranian, and Laeth only knew what little of the Common tongue he’d picked up since he came. Darranians, being an insular people, had little use for learning languages other than their own.
She watched him struggle for several days before moving next to him and interpreting. It had been a combination of the way that he’d persisted, laughing at himself and trying again, and her refusal to let herself be manipulated into hating all Darranians for what a few had done that made her help him.
He had turned to her, ignoring the betraying scar on her cheek, and thanked her in a quiet voice. The friendship that followed was a surprise to Rialla and, she thought, to him also. She taught him Common in the evenings and he told her a little about himself.
The younger son of a powerful Darranian lord, he’d amused himself scandalizing his family for most of his life. Then he’d discovered a shy little maid called Marri, whom he’d met at a party given at a local estate. Her family hadn’t approved of her marriage to a black sheep, even of so exalted a family, so he’d settled down and persuaded his father to give him a small manor that he worked for a year, preparing it for his intended bride. When he received an invitation to his older brother Karsten’s wedding, he decided that the time had come to inform his family that he’d found the girl he intended to marry.
When he returned home for the wedding, his family welcomed him and his brother introduced Laeth to his new bride—Marri. Karsten had decided to marry a local girl.
Laeth had smiled politely at his love’s unhappy face, understanding that a Darranian girl of good family could not refuse a marriage arranged by her parents. He’d even congratulated his brother. The next morning Laeth told his parents that he’d received notice of trouble at his little farm that required his immediate presence. He would have to leave before the wedding.