She took all of the plants to the stream and washed them off carefully before taking them to the pot of stew and dumping them in. Terran thanked her with a nod and continued stirring.
Rialla moved as far away as she dared before finding a likely stump. She sat down and then finger-combed her hair until she could braid it back out of her face. She didn’t have anything to tie it with, but hoped it would be a while before it came undone again.
The dampness of her clothes made it seem colder than it was; the wind was stirring with the oncoming storm. However, the shiver that caused her to wrap her arms around herself was caused by anxiety more than cold. She could only hope that the whitecowl didn’t do anything distinctive when it was boiled—like turn red and stink.
The sky was darkening rapidly with evening and signs of the summer storm. By the time Terran called them over to eat, it was nearly dark and the wind had picked up speed.
Rialla examined the stew carefully, but she couldn’t see anything wrong with it. She smelled it unobtrusively, but it only smelled like wild onions and salted meat. The deepening shadows and Rialla’s distant perch made it easy for her to pretend to eat while surreptitiously dumping the stew to the ground.
When everyone was through eating, Rialla gathered the dishes and the pot and carried them to the stream to wash. She took her time, hoping that the others would fall asleep before Winterseine tied her up for the night.
When she turned back to the fire, the small hope that had been steadily growing in her dissipated. Clearly outlined against the fire, Winterseine sat comfortably on a large rock, tossing his knife hilt over blade into the air, then catching it and sending it spinning again. In the distance Rialla heard a rumble of thunder.
Rialla walked slowly to the packs that Winterseine had removed from the horses and put the bowls and the pot away. Hoping nothing showed in her face, she returned to the fire.
“Slave girl,” purred Winterseine softly.
She raised her eyes to him in mute question, distrusting the satisfaction in his voice.
“Magicians use a lot of herbs in their spells. Did you know that?” He smiled at her.
Rialla’s stomach knotted, but she kept her face blank as she shook her head.
“Whitecowl has a distinctive taste, almost minty. The onions were a nice touch. I almost didn’t catch the flavor of the whitecowl in time. Terran didn’t.” Winterseine nodded across the fire.
Rialla looked where he’d indicated and saw for the first time that Terran was lying on his side—clearly asleep.
“But then he’s not a magician. I need to thank you, slave girl.” Winterseine’s voice drew her attention back to him. “I have been trying for some time to get Terran in just such a position. My poor Tamas is caught up in this Altis cult my son started; I knew it was useless to ask him to poison Terran as he did my nephew Karsten.”
Up went the knife in a glittering twisting motion, then back to rest in the deft hands of the magician. Lightning cracked across the sky as the evening storm grew nearer.
“I am afraid that Terran has forgotten that others have ambitions as well,” continued Winterseine. “He is so caught up in his own myth he forgets more mundane issues.” He shook his head sadly. “He was angry that I killed Karsten. He hoped I would give up when the swamp beast failed.”
“But the diversion worked, and Karsten died,” commented Rialla.
Winterseine laughed. “It was supposed to kill Karsten, not act as a diversion. I had a geas laid upon it—but the geas couldn’t force it away from an empath. Somehow Terran learned of my plans. I didn’t realize why he insisted on bringing a half-trained slave to Karsten’s celebration—not until the creature attacked you that night. She was an empath too. After she killed herself, Terran must have remembered that you used to be an empath and decided to use you to break the geas instead.” Winterseine’s voice had gotten quieter with the force of his rage. “He thought that I would not kill if I had to do it with my own hands. Foolish of him. How does he think that my father died… a hunting accident?”
Winterseine was talking more to himself than to Rialla. She hoped that he would get distracted enough for her to run. In the darkness she could hide from him for a long time.
“After Terran dies,” continued Winterseine thoughtfully, “I think I shall send Tamas to Sianim to poison my nephew Laeth. Lord Jarroh might also be a problem, but one of his servants has done jobs for me before—another one will be no trouble.” Winterseine smiled with pleasure, and a chill crept up Rialla’s spine. She was too far away to touch the madness she had felt lurking underneath his surface, but she could see it clearly in the eyes of the man who talked so casually about murdering his own son.
“Cerric, our little-boy king, doesn’t have any legitimate male heirs. After ten years or so of acting as his regent, I will have accustomed Darran to my rule, and when Cerric dies I will be the logical choice to replace him—after all, my bloodlines are tied with the royal house. But perhaps it would be better if Cerric just goes mad, and needs to be locked up for life; I’ll take things as they come.”
Winterseine paused and held the knife still for a moment before sending it spinning into the dirt near Terran’s head. It landed with a thump, burying itself halfway up the blade in the dirt. He shifted his gaze from his sleeping son to Rialla. She took an involuntary step back and he smiled again, slipping a pouch off his belt.
“I was worried about killing Terran. I trust that you’ve heard the stories he tells about the coming of the old gods?” He paused to give her time to answer, but seemed unconcerned about her lack of response.
“Unfortunately, the stories are true. Terran does seem to have some sort of tie with the god Altis. When it first began, I thought that it would be good to have my son with so much power.” Winterseine shook his head. “But I can’t let him do as he intends. I spent the most productive years of my life bowing to the ae’Magi. When he died, I stole the key to the Master Spells so that I would not have to do that again—now I have to bow to Terran’s control. Terran’s!” Winterseine spat the name out with outrage, but regained control of himself and said calmly, “I have discovered that although Altis grants my son power, he does not always watch over him. This…” Winterseine showed Rialla a silver ring that he wore, the one she and Tris had found in a hollow book while they were searching the study. “This allows me to know when my son is watched by his god. As at this moment he is not.
“If I were to kill Terran myself, as I did Karsten, Altis would destroy me—finding who wielded the knife or potion would be child’s play even to a hedgewitch. But I have another way.” As he spoke, Winterseine opened the pouch and removed four neat bundles of cloth. These he unfolded. There was something inside each bundle, but the darkness kept Rialla from seeing exactly what it was. Winterseine combined the substances until he held only one cloth square in his hand.
“I will, of course, be devastated at the death of my only son. It seems that we went out chasing a runaway slave and she knifed him while he slept—I warned him that she was subject to such fits. I, his grieving father, destroyed the slave—but vengeance is no substitute for a lost child.” His voice was sad, belied by the wide smile on his face. He said something in a language that Rialla didn’t understand and then blew the contents of his cloth in her direction.
“Take the knife, and kill him with it.” Winterseine’s tone was cold and harsh, demanding instant response.
Rialla took a step toward Terran, then stopped. She bit her lip in an effort to resist Winterseine’s command.
“Take the knife and kill Terran with it,” repeated Winterseine, adding a hand gesture.