Patricia Briggs: Steal the Dragon

“I’ll find him,” he said shortly.

Tris slid under the thornberry branches and returned with the spellbook and its loose pages in one arm and the journal tucked under his belt. Regaining his feet, he walked to the satchel and brought out the dagger. As he bent over, the pages won their freedom at last, sliding out of Winterseine’s book to flutter to the ground.

“I don’t think that I want to leave those for Winterseine to find,” said Tris, giving them a grim look. “Nor am I overanxious to pick them up.”

“What about the fire?” asked Rialla.

“It’s worth trying,” answered Tris.

With the aid of the cooking sticks, Tris lifted the pages and set them into the small camp fire.

For a moment nothing happened, then a hollow boom echoed through the woods, and the flames converged on the parchment sheets, deserting the wood until even the coals were black and cold. Gradually the flames died down and left the pages glowing.

“This could be difficult,” commented Tris in an abstract tone.

“Cursed difficult,” agreed Rialla, shaken.

Tris turned to grin at her, saying in a theatrical voice, “But I have the most destructive force in nature at my call. Watch and marvel, fair lady.”

He hunted diligently under the nearby trees, summoning a magelight to help him. At last he retrieved a wrinkled sacklike ball that he pick up gingerly between two fingers. He carried it back to the dead fire and set it delicately on the still-glowing sheets. In the light emitted by the radiant parchment, Rialla thought the gray ball looked shriveled and harmless.

“What is that?” she asked.

“Spore sack.”

Tris used one of the cooking sticks and prodded the leathery sack lightly. Rialla plugged her ears as the ball exploded… with an inaudible puff. She could see fireless smoke escape from the ball and leisurely settle in an ashy mist upon the pages.

Rialla snickered.

Tris ignored her and stared intently at the spore-bearing parchment. The pages’ glow began to dim then flow outward, fading as the nearby grass lengthened and flowers bloomed from the magic that was released. Rialla could hear a soft sighing sound as the leaves of the nearby bushes brushed against one another, growing with the magic that human mages had used to saturate two thin sheets of lambskin.

Gradually, darkness regained its hold and the light faded. Tris stood over the dead coals of the fire and called a magelight.

As they watched, a soft breeze danced lightly against their skin and dissolved the buff-colored sheets into minute fragments that scattered in the wind’s path, leaving a ring of white mushrooms on the ashes of the fire.

Rialla laughed softly. “The most destructive force in nature, huh? Rot.”

Tris grinned. “Exactly.”

“Tris,” said Rialla, as she watched Tris double-check to make sure that he had everything. “I don’t know if I’ve ever thanked you for what you’ve done. If I don’t see you again, I wanted you to know that I’ve,” she gave him an odd smile, as she realized the truth of what she was saying, “enjoyed our association.”

He gave her an indecipherable look that faded to humor as he stood up. “If I don’t see you again then…” He moved swiftly for one so large and cupped her chin in his hand.

As his words trailed off, Rialla thought about backing away from his light hold. With a mental shrug she decided to enjoy his kiss instead. When he stepped back, his breathing was as unsteady as hers.

He held her gaze and said firmly, “I’ll see you in three or four days.”

Rialla watched him run until he was lost in the darkness, before starting off on her own. If Terran and Winterseine were so close, she would need to travel through the night to stay ahead of them.

Rather than continuing in the direction that they’d been traveling, Rialla moved directly away from where Tris had indicated Terran and Winterseine were camped.

The path she took led through the thickest undergrowth she could find. Without a trail Rialla was forced to struggle through the interwoven leaves. Branches grabbed at her hair and tripped her when she least expected it. When she rapped her shins against a fallen limb for the fifth time in as many minutes, she reminded herself that she’d chosen this path because it was much more difficult for a rider to get through, and pressed on.

Tris had told her that the ground in this direction was marshy, and twice she was forced to edge around boggy patches that looked like open meadow. She crossed a rock-strewn stream that left her feet wet and cold. By the time morning light began to filter through the trees, she had covered several miles, and the constant awareness of Tris had faded.

As she journeyed, Rialla used the position of stars, and later the sun, to guide her so she traveled in a straight line Terran could not shorten. She walked until she was stumbling with exhaustion, then climbed up into the shelter of a large old apple tree to rest in the late afternoon.

As the sun was setting, Rialla was up and walking again. She tried to contact Tris, but evidently he was now too far away to reach. Twice she found bear tracks, but no sign of Uriah. She would have been more comfortable in the desert of her childhood rather than the temperate and moist climate of southern Darran, but this had its advantages as well. Because of the high rainfall, there were streams scattered all over the gentle hills and valley bottoms.

Knowing that Terran could track her by whatever mysterious process his god allowed, she didn’t try to hide her tracks. Instead she waded through mud and crawled under thickets that the men on horseback would have to ride around.

On the afternoon of the second day they found her.

She was drinking from a stream when she heard their horses, and she sat back on her heels to wait for them.

Winterseine spurred his horse to a gallop and pulled it up rearing in front of Rialla. Blank-faced, she focused on the horse’s legs, noting absently that its hooves needed to be trimmed and reshod.

Winterseine jumped to the ground and grabbed her by the hair, pulling Rialla roughly to her feet.

“Bitch!” he spat. “Where is it? Where is the book?”

“She can hardly answer while you are shaking her like that, Father,” said Terran in mild rebuke.

Isslic dropped her to her knees and grabbed something from his saddle. “Answer me, bitch. Where is the book you stole? Where is the dagger?”

Keeping in mind the part she had decided to play, Rialla answered dully, “He took them.”

The whip whistled when it came down on her back. Terran caught his father’s hand before he could hit her again.

“She’s telling the truth.” There was cold certainty in the younger man’s voice. “Why don’t you ask her to explain before you damage her beyond reclamation? Your temper could cost you a valuable dancer.” Without waiting for his father’s response, Terran addressed Rialla. “Who took them?”

Rialla eyed Winterseine warily from under her brows. He was all but shaking with rage at Terran’s interference.

She kept her voice submissive as she answered, careful to be truthful—it sounded as if Terran could tell if she weren’t. “The man who traveled with me, the one Laeth told me would come here. He told me that it was time to leave the hold and go to Sianim—so we did. After a day or so, he said that you were following me—so he left with the dagger.”

“He took the book too?” snapped Winterseine.

Rialla nodded her head.

“How long ago did he leave?” The slave trainer’s voice was tight.

“Two days,” Rialla said evenly.

“This man you were with,” asked Terran, his voice soft, “was he a magician?”