Raven's Shadow (Raven #1)(56)

"Disadvantage, eh?" He glanced at his clothes. "If they kidnap a man at the tail end of a three-month hunt, they get as they deserve. I'll wash, but you ladies get yourselves out of here or my wife will have my head."

The women in the pool giggled as if he'd been witty, but they waited for a gesture from the woman he'd followed before they left the pool. They wrapped themselves in a couple of the bathing sheets folded in piles on a bench and exited the room through the same door he'd entered.

"You too, lass," he told his guide. "The high-born you serve may be comfortable with help, but we Rederni are competent to wash ourselves."

Smilingly she bowed and left, shutting the door behind her. He hadn't noticed a latch, but he heard a click that could be nothing else so he didn't bother to try the door. The waterfall was more intriguing.

Four leaps gave him a fingerhold on the lowest ledge and he climbed the rest with relative ease. When he found the opening the water fell through in the corner of the ceiling, it was grated with iron bars set in mortar.

He slid back down and splashed uncaring of his battered clothing into the cold pool of water. He hadn't expected such an obvious way out, but he needed to know what he dealt with. Eventually he'd manage a way out - in the meantime there was no need for filth.

He washed the clothes on his body first, then threw them into the waiting hot tub, where he'd soap down both them and himself when he was ready.

The cold water poured over his face, clearing his head and his thoughts as he scraped away dirt.

He hadn't heard anyone enter, but when he stepped out from the waterfall, there were clean clothes waiting for him.

He ignored them and settled into the tub of hot water, soaped himself off, and gave rough service to his clothes. Rinsing everything in the cold pool, he draped his clothes where he could. Shivering now, he dried himself and examined the clothing she'd left for him.

It was serviceable clothing, very like the filthy garments he'd taken off, though less worn. He fingered the shirt thoughtfully before donning it. The leather boots fit him as well as his old ones, lost somewhere during his captivity.

As he tied the laces of his boots, his guide returned, her timing too accurate for guessing. Someone had been watching him - he hoped they enjoyed the show. She held a tray with a comb and a plain silver clip and held them out. He ran the comb through his hair and pulled it back into a queue which he fastened with the clip.

He turned around once for her perusal and she nodded. "You'll do, sir. If you'll follow me, the Master awaits your presence."

"Master?" he asked.

But she'd given him all the information she intended to. "Come," she said, leading him back to the corridor.

The double doors at the end of the hall were open this time and a haze of smoke drifted into the corridor along with a desultory drumbeat and a hum of conversation. But he had only a moment to glance inside and get an impression of some sort of public room with tables and benches scattered around, before the woman opened the door directly across from the bathing room and gestured him in.

In size and lack of windows, the room resembled the cell Tier had been living in, though here the stone floor was covered with a tightly woven rug that cushioned his feet. A pair of matching tapestries hung on one wall. The only furnishings in the room were two comfortable-looking chairs flanking a small round table.

In one of the chairs sat a man in a black velvet robe sipping from a goblet. He was a decade or so older than Tier with the features of an eastern nobleman, wide-cheeked and flat-nosed. Like his face, his hands belonged to an aristocrat, long-fingered and bedecked with rings.

He looked up when Tier's guide softly cleared her throat.

"Ah. Thank you, Myrceria," he said pleasantly, setting his goblet on the table. "That will be all."

The door shut quietly behind Tier's back, leaving the two men alone in the room.

The robed man folded his hands contemplatively against his chin, "You don't look like a Traveler, Tieragan of Redern."

Traveler?

Tier raised an eyebrow and took the empty chair. It was a little short for him, so he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. When he was comfortable, he looked at the man most probably responsible for his recent imprisonment and said courteously, "And you don't look like a festering pustule on a slug's hind end either. Appearances can be deceiving."

The other man's face didn't change, but Tier felt a pulse of power, of magic - just as he was meant to.

The surge of magic died and the wizard smiled. "You are angry, aren't you? I do believe we owe you an apology for keeping you locked in your cell, but it has been a long time since we had an Owl in our keeping. We had to be certain that we could contain your magic before releasing you."

Contain his magic?

"You seem to know a lot about me," Tier commented. "Would you care to return the favor?"

The other man laughed, "You'll have to excuse me - you're not quite what I expected. I am Kerstang, Sept of Telleridge."

Tier nodded slowly. "And what would the Sept of Telleridge want with a Rederni farmer?"

"Nothing at all," said Telleridge. "I do, however, have a use for a Traveler and Bard."

"I told you," said Tier mildly. "I am not a Traveler. What do you need me for?"