Patricia Briggs: Steal the Dragon

“No. I have never met anyone with whom a bonding would work. There are so few sylvan now, fewer still ever find a bond mate.”

Rialla thought about what he had said. “You formed the bond between us because a seer told you it could work?”

“No,” he said. “I did it because I finally found someone with whom I could belong.” He stood then, going back to the food, but he didn’t pick up the spoon.

Instead he bowed his head and said softly, “I’m sorry.”

Deep in her own thoughts, Rialla only dimly heard him continue. “I thought at first that I could break the link, if you didn’t want it. It isn’t supposed to strengthen as fast as it did. In the old days, when my people were many, the initial ceremony lasted for three months. If the couple were unwilling to continue so bound, the link was removed. Trenna told me we could bond. She didn’t say that you’d be willing.”

Rialla remembered the things she’d learned about him last night, remembered the soul-eating loneliness and found its echo in herself. If she’d known of such a bond, she would have moved mountains to achieve it. When she considered it, the bond didn’t frighten her—not at all. She hugged her reply to herself for a moment, then said softly, “I’m not.”

“I know,” said Tris, misunderstanding. “But there’s nothing that I can do about it. It’s been too late since Winterseine put you on the water wheel.”

“No,” said Rialla, lifting her face so he could see her smile. “I meant that I’m not sorry, not that I’m not willing.”

Tris whirled to face her, and gave her the autocratically displeased look that she’d seen him turn on Winterseine. Rialla bit her lip, knowing that he’d be offended if she laughed. Half her euphoria was caused by fatigue, so she fought to keep properly sedate.

“You let me grovel,” Tris growled.

Rialla buried her face in her knees and lost the battle, giggling helplessly.

Tris’s magelight faded into darkness.

“Theft,” purred Tris, sometime later.

“Thief,” acknowledged Rialla with sleepy laughter.

Lord Jarroh looked up in some irritation when a light knock sounded on his study door. He had left clear instructions that he did not want to be disturbed. Glancing out the window, he saw that night had fallen while he was working on his books.

With a sigh, he set his accounting aside and walked around his desk to open the door.

“Yes?”

The hallway was dark, so he couldn’t clearly see the person who had disrupted his work.

“Your pardon, honored sir. I have information for you, of a private nature.”

Lord Jarroh received many such private messages—one of the reasons that he always wore a fine mail shirt under his clothes. He stepped away from the entrance and waved the messenger in, shutting the door softly behind him.

“Your business?”

“Lord Karsten’s murder,” said Rialla, lowering the hood of her cloak so he could see her face clearly. “I told you to consider the logic of designating Lord Laeth as Karsten’s killer. Have you?”

Lord Jarroh’s hand went instinctively to his knife, closing on the haft, but his face lost none of its calm aloofness. “Yes. Disregarding what I saw when Karsten died, Lord Winterseine would be the most logical candidate. I have known both him and Lord Laeth almost as long as I knew Karsten; if I had not seen Laeth stab Karsten myself, I would never have believed it. Unfortunately, Lord Winterseine has recently been struck with an illness that makes it impossible to question him.”

Rialla slipped the messenger bag off her shoulder and brought out a thick book, Laeth’s dagger and two sheets of parchment. “I have, sir, for your perusal, several items of interest.

“The first is Lord Winterseine’s grimoire . It has been rendered harmless by the ae’Magi, Lord Kisrah. You will notice Lord Kisrah removed several pages and destroyed the lock.

“The second is the dagger used to kill Lord Karsten. We discovered it in a small keep where Lord Winterseine trains slaves.

“The third item is a letter from Lord Kisrah detailing his reading of the dagger. Furthermore, he is willing to swear that Lord Winterseine is a mage powerful enough to have served on the wizard’s council. Certainly he could have created an illusion so you would believe it was Laeth’s hands on the dagger.”

Lord Jarroh shook his head. “That does not matter. Do you think that a Darranian court will take the word of the Archmage on a matter of state?”

“No,” replied Rialla. “We had hoped, though, that you would be willing to consider the evidence.”

“To what purpose?”

“My lord,” said Rialla, “we would like you to insure that Winterseine and his son Terran do not inherit Lord Karsten’s estates. If you are not convinced of Laeth’s innocence, then let the estates go to the crown.

“The fourth item that I brought for your consideration, my lord, is a letter from Ren, Spymaster of Sianim. He feels it should answer any questions that you might have about Sianim’s interest in this matter.”

Rialla took a step forward into the light. “Lord Jarroh, Lord Karsten was killed because he believed in an end to the feuding that has cost both Darran and Reth so much. He foresaw a day when peace would rule. Winterseine was not alone in planning Karsten’s death; do not allow the killers to triumph. Giving them the power and prestige of Karsten’s estates will destroy his dream.”

Lord Jarroh reached out to tilt her face until the light of a nearby oil lamp illuminated her clearly.

“You are Laeth’s slave.”

She shook her head and took a step back. “No, I am Laeth’s friend.”

He dropped his hand and pursed his lips in thought. Finally, he met Rialla’s steady gaze. “Tell Laeth I will do my best to clear his name. For his brother’s sake, I will see to it that the marriage between our princess and King Myr of Reth takes place as planned.” He paused, looking at Rialla’s flawless face, then continued softly, “Even if it means an end to slavery.”