Rialla watched him ride at a nonchalant trot to the outer gates. As he passed through, another horse bolted into the courtyard, lathered and blown. To Rialla’s surprise its rider pulled it to a skidding halt next to where she stood, just outside the ostentatious door.
She had little chance for anything other than a brief glimpse of the man’s bearded face and the impression that he was big. He swung down, shoved the reins at her and yanked the saddlebags off his mount.
“Take him to the stables and see that he’s cared for,” he ordered shortly. Without waiting for a reply, he ran to the door she’d just left.
She rubbed the sweating gelding’s head soothingly to calm him. He was a sturdy enough animal, in good shape —but of no particular breeding; not a horse a noble would ride.
His rider hadn’t been wearing nobleman’s clothes either, for all the confidence in his command. Rialla concluded that he must be the healer that Lord Jarroh had sent for; there would have just been enough time for a messenger to make it to the village and back.
The horse butted her impatiently with his head, and she began walking him toward the stable. Even though the man she’d followed was long gone, she could ask about him in the stables; there was just something about the way the servant had been so casual in the midst of the confusion of Lord Karsten’s collapse that made her curious about him.
The stables were dark and cool and smelled like horses and fresh straw—none of the foul odors that would hint of slovenliness. Rialla felt herself relax in the familiar atmosphere.
The horse she was leading whinnied piercingly at the scent of the unfamiliar animals. A stable boy appeared from a nearby stall. He tossed Rialla a friendly smile and reached for the reins, saying, “The healer’s beastie, eh? Here now, I’ll cool him out a bit and find an empty corner to stick him in.”
Rialla handed the horse over to him and then asked, “Did you see the man that just came in here and took out a liver-chestnut mare?” A proper slave would never attempt conversation with anyone other than another slave, but the groom seemed cordial enough.
The boy glanced around, probably to see if anyone was watching—a stable boy was hired to work, not to chatter with slaves. Satisfied that everyone else was busy, he said, “That was the Lord Winterseine’s man, Tamas. He’s here a lot. If I were you, I’d try and avoid him if you can.”
“Winterseine or Tamas?” Rialla asked.
“Tamas. Winterseine’s all right. Tamas, though, is awful quick with a whip or a fist.” The boy looked at her meaningfully. “He likes it rough, makes him feel powerful. Stay out of his way unless you like it that way too.” Without further delay he led the horse down the aisle to begin cooling it off.
Thoughtfully, Rialla returned to the castle and sneaked back into the room where she’d left Laeth—or at least she tried to sneak back in. Laeth met her at the door and said in furious tones that the whole room could hear, “Where have you been, girl? It couldn’t have taken you so long to carry out Lord Jarroh’s orders.”
Rialla took in the room at a glance. Her fragmented talent caught the suspicion that was in the air, directed at Laeth. She bowed her head humbly and said in clear tones that would carry, “Master, this morning you told me to see if I could find the pin you were missing. When someone mentioned a groom, I remembered that you were wearing it yesterday afternoon when you went hunting, but I didn’t see you wear it to dinner. I thought that maybe when you were in the stall with the servant girl…” She cowered nervously, as if realizing that she shouldn’t have said anything about that.
Someone laughed and made an obscene comment; sleeping with servants was commonplace, but not to be talked about in public. Laeth backhanded her forcefully on her face, knocking her to the ground. It looked more impressive than it was. Laeth’s blow was no worse than many a strike they’d exchanged on the practice floor at Sianim. Like any good slave, Rialla cowered and whimpered; all slaves learn quickly that if it looks as if the blow hurt, it isn’t as likely to be repeated.
To Rialla’s astonishment, a large, gentle hand touched her shoulder and the healer helped her to her feet. “She was near the stables and took my horse when I arrived. You shouldn’t give orders unless you want them followed, my lord.”
Rialla barely restrained a gasp at the healer’s tones. No commoner talked to a noble in that tone of voice—not if he wanted to live to face the morning.
Mercenary or not, Laeth’s upbringing as a Darranian noble caused his eyes to flash with outrage. The healer didn’t give Laeth a chance to reply before turning to Lord Jarroh. “I have managed to counteract the poison in Lord Karsten’s system. He’ll be weak, but should be well enough in an hour or so. I’ll leave my bill with the clerk as usual.” He swept out of the room with as much presence as any of the nobles.
Deliberately Laeth reacted to his frustrated anger as most of his peers would have under the circumstance. He knocked Rialla to the ground again, hitting her open-handed on her cheek with a blow that was more flash than substance.
“Wait for me in my room,” he snarled.
Rialla scurried gratefully out, and holding a hand to her face, she headed to the bedroom while Laeth complained loudly about poorly trained slaves.
As she turned the first corner of the hallway, Rialla was stopped by a hand on her arm. Startled, she looked up to see the healer. Before she could draw away, he touched her untattooed cheek with his hand. Raising an eyebrow, he tilted her head so he could see the side of her face clearly in the torchlight.
“There is no mark where he hit you.” His comment was in a mild tone, but firmly spoken. Clearly he would have answers before he left her alone.
Rialla looked around frantically and saw with relief that there was no one in the vicinity. She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the nearest room. From the glimpse she had while the door was open, it seemed to be an unused study in the midst of remodeling. There were no windows to allow light in, and it was as dark as a cave in the small room after she pulled the door closed. Rialla made a frustrated sound.
“Hold on,” she said, falling out of character. “I’ll find a flint…” There was a crash as she fell over an object left in the middle of the floor and cracked her head on something hard.
“Perhaps I might be of some assistance.” A light flared as the healer spoke, a candle flickering in his hand. His voice was carefully void of humor, but there was something in his face that hinted at it, and Rialla glared balefully at him from her position on the floor before she remembered that she was supposed to be a slave.
It was the first time that she’d had a chance to look closely at him, and she realized what had troubled her before: the healer was no more Darranian than she was. It wasn’t just that he was taller and bigger boned, but his coloring was wrong. His hair was almost blond, though the short-trimmed beard was darker. His eyes were hazel, but they weren’t as green as hers; his had flecks of light blue that seemed to come and go in the candlelight.
Ignoring her glare, the healer said, “Now, you will please explain to me how you got hit hard enough to knock you to the ground without even so much as a red mark on your face.”
Rialla jumped lithely to her feet, with the grace of the dancer she was, and dusted herself off to gain some time to think. Finally she said, “Lord Laeth needs to keep up appearances, but he doesn’t want to damage me. The blow was a warning more than a punishment. He disciplines me in other ways.” It was the best that she could come up with on short notice, and it wasn’t very good.