Masques

SIX

Somewhere in the darkness, a nighthawk cried out in defeat, and the mouse escaped for another night. Aralorn sympathized with the mouse, as she knew exactly how it felt.

Edom’s remains had been gone when she’d arrived back at Wolf’s camp with her belongings. Nothing remained of the blackened body except a slight scorched smell, as if someone had left the stew on the fire too long. She supposed that Wolf had disposed of the body somewhere; she hadn’t been inclined to ask.

Now that the excitement was over, it was time to rest, but she couldn’t do it. When she closed her eyes, she could all but feel the not-quite-cold metal cutting her and tearing at more than the flesh of her thigh. Every time she managed to doze off, she had nightmares about arriving too late to help Wolf or the sword’s bite cutting all the way to her soul and leaving her bleeding to death from a wound that no bandage could stem.

As she lay awake in the chill air of early morning, the blankets she used seemed too thin to protect her from the cold and damp. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them in an effort to get warm, but even that didn’t seem to help. She shivered convulsively and knew that some of it was due to fear rather than the night air.

She sat up and rested her forehead on her knees. She closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop the jumbled images from presenting themselves to her.

If she hadn’t decided to find out what was bothering Sheen, or Edom had been just a little swifter in his work, Wolf would be dead. Not only would that have meant the end of any chance of defeating the ae’Magi, but she would have lost her enigmatic companion. Some part of her was amused that of the two results, it was the second that bothered her the most. Ren would not approve.

She was so intent on her thoughts that she didn’t notice that Wolf had gotten up until he sat down beside her.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

She started to nod, then abruptly shook her head—without lifting it from her knees. “No. I am not all right. If I were all right, I would be asleep.” As she spoke, still without looking up, she scooted nearer to him, until she was leaning against his shoulder.

There was a pause, and then he slid an arm around her shoulder. “What’s wrong, Lady?”

He was so warm. She shrugged.

“Is there something I can do?”

She let go of her legs and snuggled closer until she was almost sitting in his lap. “You’re already doing it, thanks. I’m sorry. Just jittery after the fight.”

“I don’t mind.” He sat still, holding her almost awkwardly—but his warmth seeped in and alleviated the cold that blankets hadn’t been able to dispel.

Aralorn relaxed but felt no pressing need to move away. “I must be turning into one of those women who moan and wail at the first chance they get—just so a handsome man will take them into his arms.” Yes, she was flirting. It didn’t seem to bother him.

“Hmm,” he said, apparently considering what she had said. “Is that why they do it? I have always wondered.”

“Yup,” she said wisely, noticing that he wasn’t holding her as stiffly. As if he wasn’t used to someone so close. She’d snuggled down with the wolf sometimes—although rarely. He seldom invited touch. “Then,” Aralorn continued, keeping it light, “she has her way with him, and he has to marry her. It’s nice to know that I haven’t fallen to that level . . . yet.”

“So that’s not why you’re here?” He seemed intrigued rather than unhappy, she decided.

She paused, then said, “I was just getting a little chilled and thought to myself, ‘Aralorn, what is the easiest way to get warm?’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the fire is nice, but moving requires so much effort.’ ‘Ah yes,’ I answered, ‘why didn’t I think of it before? There is all of that heat going to waste on the other side of the fire.’ All it took was a few broad hints, and, presto, you’re here: instant heat with very little effort upon my part.”

“Yes,” he said, tightening his grip and releasing it a moment later. “I can see how that works. Nicely underhanded of you.”

She nodded happily: The tension caused by the nightmare dissipated with the familiar banter. “I thought so, too. It’s Ren’s fault—he teaches us how to be sneaky.” She yawned sleepily, closing her eyes. “Oh, I meant to ask—who is keeping watch on the camp?”

“Myr took care of it,” he answered her. “The ae’Magi won’t have planned two attacks in the same evening, and he won’t find out about Edom’s failure until he doesn’t report. Magical communication isn’t all that it could be in these mountains.”

“Report.” She sat up a little straighter. “Wolf, if Edom was his creature, the ae’Magi knows where we are. Are you sure Edom wasn’t acting on his own?” It was unlikely, but it was possible.

“Edom belonged to the ae’Magi,” Wolf answered. “I recognized the sword. As far as the ae’Magi knowing where we are . . . Aralorn, there are only so many places we could hide from the ae’Magi. Eventually, he’ll find us, whether or not Edom had a chance to tell him.” He shrugged. “If it helps any, I would have noticed anything Edom could do magically to communicate. He’d have had to use mundane means.”

It did make her feel better. Her temporary alertness faded into exhaustion. As she wiggled into the generous warmth of him, she decided that Wolf was more comfortable to sleep on when he was wearing human shape; he smelled better, too.

Wolf waited until she was asleep before he set her back down on her blankets. He added his blankets to hers and tucked them carefully around her. He brushed a hand against her cheek. “Sleep, Lady.” He hesitated, but she was truly asleep. “My Lady,” he whispered.

He shifted into his wolf shape and stretched out beside her and stared into the night. Being human so much made him nervous after all the time he’d spent as a wolf. The wolf would have heard Edom coming.

The wolf wouldn’t have felt so awkward taking what she’d given him.

As she had expected, Aralorn was alone when she woke up. Wolf’s longest absences were the result of a display of affection on his part, as if it was something with which he was not comfortable or, in light of what she’d been learning about him, felt he didn’t deserve.

To her surprise, her reception at camp was cordial. She collected a few wary looks, and that was all. Mostly, she thought, Myr was keeping them too busy sewing and digging to worry about her one way or another.

If the adults showed little reaction, the children were fascinated by the shapechanger in their midst. They wanted to know if she could change into a rock (no) or a bird (they liked the goose, but would have preferred an eagle or, better yet, a vulture), and if shapeshifters really had to drink blood once a year, and . . . She was grateful when Wolf came to get her. For once she was tired of telling stories.

“I hope,” she said, as they reached the caves, “that they don’t believe half of what I tell them.”

“They probably don’t,” Wolf replied. “Your problem is that they will believe the wrong half.”

She laughed and ducked into the opening in the limestone wall.

When they reached the library, she noticed that her notes had been scattered around. One of the pages that she had been writing on the previous day was conspicuously situated in the space where Wolf worked. Looking closer at it she saw that it was the one that she’d been using to jot down the stories she’d found in the last book she’d read the day before. She never had gotten around to telling Wolf about the apprentice’s spell that negated magic.

Wolf took up the paper and read her closely written scribblings with interest—or maybe, she thought guiltily, her handwriting was bad enough it required his whole attention. Aralorn straightened the rest of her papers, then glanced around the library. What kind of a breeze could pull a sheet of paper out from under the books that were still neatly stacked where she had left them? If she hadn’t been here with Wolf, she’d have been worried; as it was, she was merely curious.

“I assume that if the apprentice who developed a way to negate magic were given a name, you would have told me.” Wolf set down the paper.

She nodded. “I don’t remember ever seeing that story before, so it can’t be very well-known.”

Wolf tapped the paper impatiently with a finger. “I have read that story somewhere else, a long time ago. I know that the one that I read gave his name. I just need to remember which book I read it in.” Wolf stood silently a minute before shaking his head in disgust. “Let’s work on this mess”—he waved his hand vaguely at the bookcases—“and hopefully I will remember later.”

They sat in their respective chairs and read. Aralorn waded through three rather boring histories before she found anything of note. As she was reading the last page of the history of the Zorantra family (who were known for developing a second-rate wine) the spine of the poorly preserved book gave way.

While inspecting the damage, she noticed that the back cover consisted of two pieces of leather that were carefully stitched together to hide a small space inside—just big enough for the folded pages it contained. Slipping the sheets out of their resting place, she examined them cautiously.

By this time Wolf was used to Aralorn laughing at odd moments, but he had just finished deciphering a particularly useless spell and so was ready to relax for a minute.

“What is it?”

She grinned at him and waved the frail cluster of parchment in his general direction. “Look at this. I found it hidden in a book and thought that it might be a spell or something interesting, but it looks as though someone who had the book before you acquired it was quite an artist.”

He took the sheets from her. They were covered with scenes of improbably endowed nude figures in even more improbable positions. He was about to give it back to her when he stopped and took a closer look.

He crumpled the pages and flamed them. Someone had set protection and hide-me spells, doubtless the reason Aralorn hadn’t felt its power, but the old magic wasn’t up to withstanding his will. The drawings—on sheets of human skin, though he wasn’t about to tell Aralorn—flared deep purple and silver before settling into gold-and-red fire. He dropped the flaming bits, and they fluttered to the table, burning to ash before touching down. If it smelled like burning flesh, she’d probably just assume they had been made of goatskin.

“Wolf?”

“You were right on your first guess.” He couldn’t look at her. “It is a spell. It’s a rather crude representation on how to summon a demon.”

“Demon?” asked Aralorn, sounding interested without being eager. “I didn’t think that there was any such thing, or do you mean an elemental, like the one that tried to kill Myr?”

Wolf tilted his head and laughed without humor. He should just drop it, but felt the self-destructive urge that had been such a huge part of who he’d once been take hold of his tongue. “This from a shapeshifter? Yes, there are demons, I’ve summoned them myself. Not many magicians are willing to try it. Mistakes in the spellcasting can be dangerous, and it’s getting difficult to find a virgin who can be forced to submit to the process. The ae’Magi never had a problem with it, though; his villagers could always produce some sort of victim.

“The depiction was not entirely accurate. It isn’t necessary for the magician to participate in the sexual activities unless he wishes to. He can use a proxy if he wishes.”

Wolf continued to outline the practices of summoning demons. It wasn’t something she’d want to listen to on a full stomach, and if Aralorn hadn’t been a mercenary, she wouldn’t have been able to sit coolly through it all—but a reaction was what he wanted, and she’d be plague-stricken before she gave it to him. So she maintained a remote facade while she listened. This, she decided, was his way of driving her away after the closeness of last night.

“. . . so afterward, it is necessary to dispose of the focus, or the demon will be able to use her again to return without summoning. The blood of a woman used in such a fashion is valuable, as are the hair and several other body parts. The most useful method of killing the girl is to slit her throat.” His voice was clinically precise. His glittering eyes never left hers.

She listened to his detached description of the horrors he’d committed and decided that she must be in love because what she really heard was the self-directed hatred that initiated his lecture. Doubtless he’d participated in the twisted ceremony of demon summoning and probably worse. Aralorn was even more certain that it now revolted him as much as he intended it to appall her. Possibly it had revolted him even then.

She waited until he was starting to run out of details, cupping her hand under her chin in feigned boredom. When he stopped speaking, she said, “Fine. I understand. You’ve done things that a normal human being would find abhorrent. All right. You’ve stopped doing them . . . I hope. Now can we get back to work?”

There was a long pause, then Wolf commented in the same dry tones he’d been using before. “You are frustrating at times, aren’t you?”

She grinned at him. “Sorry, Wolf. I can’t help it; melodrama has that effect on me.”

“Pest,” he said, his tone not at all affectionate, but then his voice seldom showed what he thought.

“I try,” she said modestly, and was pleased when his eyes warmed with humor.

Deciding that the crisis was over, she bounced up and strolled to a bookcase several rows away from the table, out of sight of Wolf to give them both time to calm down and sort things out. Absently, she plucked a book from a nearby shelf. She had started to open it when it whisked itself out of her hands and leapt back on the shelf with a loud thud.

She stared at it for a minute, then took two quiet steps backward until she could see Wolf, seated half of the room away with his back toward her, muttering to himself as he wrote. There was no one else in the library.

Carefully, without opening it, she picked up the book again and examined it. Now that she was paying attention, she could see the faint magical aura that was just barely visible woven into the cotton that covered the thin wood that lent the cover its hardness.

Just to be sure, she took the book to Wolf for inspection.

“Trapped,” he confirmed, and sent a flash of magic toward the book. A pop, a sharp scent, and a bit of dust floated up and returned to the surface of the book. He opened it and glanced through. “Not a grimoire. Looks like it might be a diary.”

She sat down with the book—for lack of anything better to do. Rather than a diary, it contained the autobiographical history (exaggerated) of a mediocre king of a long-forgotten realm. As a distraction from the gory details of Wolf’s discourse that kept trying to play themselves out in her head, it ranked right up there with sewing and digging holes in the dirt. She had no idea why anyone would have thought it valuable enough to trap.

“Wolf,” she said, staring at open pages. Time to ask him rather than trying to figure out what was going on herself.

“Hmm?”

“Is there someone besides us in your library?” She kept her tone carefully nonchalant.

“Hmm,” he said again, and there was a quiet thump as he set his book on the table. Aralorn did the same. “What prompted you to ask?”

She told him of her odd experiences, leaving out the last incident to spare herself his censure. When she was through, he nodded.

“These mountains have a reputation for odd happenings, like Astrid’s guide through the cave. A ghost or spirit of some sort would not be out of place.” He paused. “Though I brought these with me from the ae’Magi’s castle, I suppose something could have come over with them.”

It didn’t sound like it bothered him too much.

He looked over at her, read her face, and shrugged. “So far whatever is here has been relatively helpful. It could just as easily have hidden your papers or led Astrid to fall into one of the pits. With the ae’Magi to deal with, it is surely the least of evils.”

When they left the caves it was still light outside. The skies were slightly overcast, but the wind was from the south, so it was warm enough.

Aralorn took a deep breath of air and Wolf’s arm at the same time. “Have I thanked you yet for rescuing me from the tedium of mopping the floor of the inn for another six months or however long Ren decided to leave me there?” she said to distract him from her touch.

His stride broke when she took his arm, and he stiffened a little. She’d have backed off, but he put his hand on hers where it hooked into his elbow.

“I am certain”—he said gravely—“I will find the proper way for you to express your gratitude. I noticed just today that the library floors are starting to get a bit dusty.”

Aralorn gave an appreciative snort and quickened her pace a bit to keep up with him. He noticed what she was doing and slowed his stride until her shorter legs could keep up.

They were traveling in comfortable silence until Wolf stopped abruptly and snapped his fingers.

“I just remembered where I read that story about the apprentice who killed his master. It will take me a few days to get the book. Tell Myr that I’ve gone seeking a clue. Between the two of you, you should be able to handle anything that happens.” He stepped away from her, then turned back. “Don’t go to the library without me, I’d rather lose a few days’ work than have you turned into a rock if you opened the wrong book.”

Aralorn nodded. “Take care of yourself.”

He took the wolf’s shape and disappeared into the woods with all the stealth of a real wolf. It wasn’t until he was gone that she thought to wonder how the camp would take the fact that she was returning without Wolf after the events of last night. Edom’s death would not have vindicated her of all suspicion. With a wry smile, she resumed her course.

At the camp, Aralorn skulked around until she found Myr organizing a hunt for the next day, as the camp supplies were getting low. She caught his attention and waited for him to finish. Listening to him work was unexpectedly fascinating.

He reassured and soothed and organized until he had a small, skilled party who knew where to go and how to get back—without any of those who were not chosen feeling slighted or overlooked. With everybody as edgy as they were, this was a major accomplishment. If Myr survived to regain his throne, he would be a ruler that Reth would not soon forget.

“What did you need, Aralorn?” Myr asked, approaching her after he sent the others to their appointed tasks.

“Wolf is going to be absent for a few days. He is looking for a book that might be able to help us fight the ae’Magi.”

She kept her voice neutral, not certain how he would take it. He had no reason to trust her except that Wolf did—and Wolf was gone.

“All right,” he said. When she didn’t take that as a dismissal, he paused and considered what she’d said again. “I see your problem. You think people are going to wonder if you were really the villain last night and have completed your nefarious plot today.”

Aralorn nodded, relieved that he seemed not the least bit leery of her. “I didn’t think of it until Wolf was already gone, or I would have made him come back to camp before he left. I thought that you might want to break the news.”

Myr nodded. “I’ll tell them that he left and leave out the details. There are enough things to worry about—we don’t need a lynching.”

Abruptly, like an extinguished candle, the taut energy that generally characterized him was gone. He just looked very tired. He needed to pace himself better.

“You need to let them look after themselves for a while,” she told him. “They don’t really need you to tell them what shoe they should put on which foot or how to make stew.”

Myr laughed involuntarily. “You saw that one, huh? How should I know how much salt to put in? I’ve never cooked anything in my life—that was edible, at any rate.”

“I wish I could help you more; but even if they aren’t terrified of me, I’m not someone they can trust. You have my sympathy—for what it’s worth.”

“Thanks, anyway.” He glanced up at the cloudless evening sky. “I wish all the tents were done and we had twice as much food. The winter comes in the blink of an eye this far north. My old groom could predict the weather. He told me that the air had a tartness to it before a snowstorm, but I could never smell it.” He was talking to himself more than Aralorn. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and headed toward the center of activity.

Aralorn watched as he stopped and laid a hand on the shoulder of an older woman plying a needle. Whatever he said made her smile.

He looked as if he’d seen ten years more than she knew he had, and she wondered if he would live to see the year out. He’d probably wondered about that, too.

Since Wolf had asked her to stay out of the library, Aralorn did her best to keep busy. It wasn’t difficult. Without Pussywillow or Wolf, only she and Myr had the training to teach the motley band of rebels how to fight.

Haris was easily the best student. The muscles he’d developed swinging a smith’s hammer lent an impressive strength to his blows. Like most big men he was a little slow, but he knew how to compensate for it. In unarmed combat, he could take Aralorn but not Myr.

The rest of the camp varied from bad to pathetic. There was a squire’s son who had at one time been quite an archer, but he was old, and his eyesight wasn’t what it had been. One of the farmers could swing a scythe but not a sword. Then there was the big carpenter whose greatest asset as a fighter was his size, which he more than made up for by his gentleness.

“Okay now.” With an effort, Aralorn kept her voice from getting snappy. “Keep your sword a bit lower and watch my eyes to see where I’ll move. Now, in slow motion, I’m going to swing at you. I want you to block overhanded, then underhanded, then thrust.”

The carpenter would have been a lot better off if he could have forgotten she was a woman. The only way that she could get him to strike at her was if she did it in slow motion. But when they sped things up, he wouldn’t use his full strength. She was about to change that if she could.

“Good,” she said when he had completed the maneuvers. “Now at full speed.”

He blocked just fine, but his strike was slow and careful, lacking the power that he should have been able to put behind the blow.

Aralorn stepped into it and inside. With a deft grip and twist she tossed him over her head and into the grass. Before he had a chance to move, she had her knee on his chest and his sword arm twisted so that it would hurt him; maybe enough that he would fight her when she let him up.

There had been a collective gasp from her audience when she tossed the big man on his back. The move looked more impressive than it was, especially since he easily outweighed her by a hundred pounds.

Stanis, who was watching with his faithful shadow and a couple of other children, said, “I wouldn’t pin ’em that way, Aralorn. Two coughs from a cat, and I’d be out of it if it’d been me you caught.”

Aralorn raised an eyebrow and let her victim up. Stanis, she’d learned, had been born to a group of Traders, traveling clans no better than they should be. It was very possible that he had a few good tricks up his sleeve.

“Right, then. Come on, Stanis,” she invited.

He did. She must have pinned him a dozen times, but he kept slipping out of her grasp. Drawn by the noise, Myr quit his bout to come and watch, too. Soon the whole crowd was cheering for Stanis as he broke away again and again. Aralorn quit finally and raised her hands in surrender.

“You’re using magic to do that,” she said quietly as she shook his hand. No one but Stanis could hear her—she wouldn’t give away his tricks without permission. “I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

Stanis shook his head, gave her a wary look, then grinned and nodded. “Most of ’em are easier with magic, but there’s a few tricks that the Clansmen know if ya wanna learn ’em.”

So Stanis took a turn at teaching. He must have been a very good thief, and doubtless there were a few magistrates who were looking for him. They’d have had a hard time keeping him.

When it was time to dig latrines, sew, or hunt, Aralorn watched over the children. It was nice to have a ready audience who believed every word that came out of her mouth—at least until they got to know her better. Keeping the mischievous, magic-toting hellions out of trouble kept her from getting restless while Wolf was away. It also kept her from latrine duty.

The storm struck without warning two nights later. Within moments, the temperature dropped below freezing. Without a tent to cover her, since she was still sleeping in Wolf’s camp, Aralorn woke as the first few flakes fell. Instincts developed from years of camping had her gathering her bedding before she was really awake. Even so, by the time she left Wolf’s chosen spot and made it into the main camp, most of what she carried was already covered with snow.

At the camp, Aralorn found that Myr, efficient as ever, was shuffling people who had occupied inadequate tents to the few that looked like they would hold up in the storm. Seeing her trudge in, Myr motioned her toward his own.

She found it full of frightened people. The storms of the Northlands were rightfully legendary for their fierceness. Although their camp was protected from the brunt of the storm by the steep walls of the valley, the angry howl of the wind was so loud that it made it difficult to hear when someone spoke.

Evaluating the situation, Aralorn casually found a place for her blankets, lay down, and closed her eyes, ignoring the slight dampness left on her bedroll after she had brushed the snow off. Her nonchalance seemed to work because everyone settled down and were mostly asleep when Myr returned to his bed.

By morning the worst of the storm was over. The snow was knee deep everywhere, and in places it had drifted nearly waist high.

Aralorn was helping with the fire when Myr found her and pulled her aside. “I’m no mage, but I do know that this is a freak storm. Feel the air. It’s already getting warm, the snow is starting to melt. The storms come suddenly here, I know—but this is more like the spring storms. The winter storms hit and don’t ease for weeks. Did you notice anything unnatural about it?”

Aralorn shook her head and sneezed—sleeping in damp bedding wasn’t the best thing for one’s health. She wasn’t the only one coughing. “No, I wondered about that myself so I tried to check. I couldn’t find any trace of magic”—human magic, anyway; there was always green magic in a storm—“in the storm, although there was something strange about it, I’ll grant you.” She shrugged. “If the ae’Magi was causing that storm, he was trying to hide it, which is something he could probably do—at least from me. Weather isn’t something that mages like him are generally good with. The trappers who hunt these parts for furs would tell you that it was the Old Man of the Mountains who caused the storm.”

There was a brief silence, then Myr, who was beginning to know her, smiled slowly. “I’ll take my cue, storyteller. Who is the Old Man of the Mountain?”

She grinned cheerfully at him. “The trappers like to tell a lot of stories about him. Sometimes he is a monster who drives men mad and eats them. Other times he is a kindly old man who does things that kindly old men can’t do—like change the weather.” Maybe he might guide a child to safety, she thought. Given that there’s a thread of truth in any story. Sometimes just a piece as big as spider silk. She’d run it past Wolf when he returned. “The Old Man of the Mountain is invited to every trapper’s wedding or gathering, and a ceremonial place is laid for him when the trapping clans meet in their enclave each year to decide which trapper goes where.”

“Which mountain?” he asked.

Aralorn shrugged. “ ‘The Mountain,’ ” she said. “I don’t know. I’ve met trappers who swear that they have met him. But I’ve never seen the story in any book.”

“Do you think he could be one of the shapeshifters?”

“The Old Man who drives men mad and eats them, certainly,” she said. “But I’ve never met a full-blood shapeshifter who’d help a human find water in the middle of a river.”

“Could one of them have brought the storm?”

Impossible to explain fully how taboo it was for a green mage to mess with the greater weather patterns. Taboo implied ability, and she didn’t want the King of Reth to know that her mother’s kin had that kind of power. Eyes as clear and innocent as she could manage, she said, “Absolutely not.” Truth, but not quite the truth he’d think it.

His curiosity satisfied, Myr changed the subject. “I wish I knew how long this weather was going to last. We need to get more meat, and I can’t send the hunters out in this. They don’t have the skills to hunt in the snow. Only two or three of them have the skills to hunt at all, and none are experienced with northern weather.” As he spoke, he paced back and forth restlessly. “And mud. We’re going to have mud everywhere, then we’ll have ice.”

“Don’t borrow trouble.” Aralorn’s tone was brisk. “If we starve, there is nothing that you can do about it. However, Sheen’s not been getting much exercise lately, and I’m not too bad with a bow. I also know how to set traps if we need to. Keep your hunters home, and I’ll see what I can do for our larder.”

Myr’s face cleared. “Are you sure? This isn’t good riding.”

“Sheen’s no stranger to snow, and he’s big enough to break through this with no trouble.”

She hadn’t intended to leave just then, but the relief on his face kept her from putting it off until afternoon. She recovered her gear from the storage tent, commandeered a pair of boots, and borrowed a crossbow and arrows from one of the erstwhile hunters.

Sheen snorted and danced while she saddled him, and took off at a dead run when she was only half in the saddle; a dramatic departure that was met with ragged cheers and good-natured laughter. When she was able to pull him up and scold, they were already headed up the main trail out of the valley.

It wasn’t as difficult to travel once they were out of the valley as the harsh winds had swept the snow away from many places. As long as she stayed out of the gullies and valleys, the deep snow was usually avoidable.

There were few tracks in the snow. Hunting usually wasn’t her job; she didn’t know the habits of deer after the first good snowfall. She’d have expected them out once the snow started to melt—on the sun-exposed slopes if not the valleys—to eat the revealed greenery before winter came for good. But perhaps they were just staying sheltered. Maybe they knew something about the weather she didn’t.

She stumbled upon tracks that she’d never seen before. The prints were several hours old and smeared hopelessly by the melting snow. Whatever had made them was big—she found a branch as big around as her leg that the animal had snapped off a tree. She looked at the branch a minute and guided her nervous mount away from the thing’s trail.

“Anything that big, Sheen, is bound to be too tough and stringy to make good eating. Besides, it would be a pain to drag the body back to camp.” Sounded like a good excuse to her. The big horse snorted at her and increased his speed.

Several hours later, Aralorn wiped a gloved hand across her nose and squinted against the glare of the sunny snow-covered meadow. The oiled boots that she’d found in Myr’s stockpile worked well to keep out the water. She appreciated them all the more for the fact that all of the rest of her was wet.

The brush was so laden with heavy wet snow that even riding she got drenched. There was a lot of undergrowth on the steep slope behind them. The sun had melted enough of the snow that water ran down everywhere, making the ground muddy and slick. The light sneezes of the morning had turned into a full-blown plaguing cold.

“You know, Sheen”—she patted his glossy neck, also somewhat damp—“I think that I would prefer it if it were really cold. At least that way we would be just chilly and not wet, too.”

She pushed a soggy strand of hair out of her face with a sigh. The sun was starting the trek toward its evening rest, and they hadn’t seen so much as a rabbit. It was unusually bad luck. The camp was far enough off from commonly hunted areas that the game animals were unafraid of people. Just on the walk from the camp to the caves, Aralorn generally saw traces of deer. Today, even the birds were scarce.

Maybe whatever large beastie left its traces for her to find had scared off all of the prey. She hoped not. That would mean that it was probably something that people should be running from, too. She wished Wolf were here to tell her what it was.

A grin caught her lip as she thought about what his response to being viewed as a rescuer of Ladies in distress would be. The picture of herself as a Lady in distress caused her smile to widen a bit. She still wished for his comforting presence.

Absently she looked at the meadow and admired the pristine beauty of the untouched snow that gleamed subtly with all the colors of a rainbow, more startling because of the dark, dense forest surrounding it. She was deciding whether it was worth crossing the meadow to the river that ran on the other side or if she ought to head up the steep and muddy side hill and circle around back to camp when she noticed that there was something odd about the peaceful meadow.

She stiffened at the same time that Sheen noticed them.

“Yawan,” she whispered.

The filthy word described exactly the way she felt. Stupid, stupid to have missed them when in front of her the whole meadow was moving slowly. The covering of deep snow completely masked their scent, or maybe the cold kept them from rotting. Whatever the case, not two feet in front of her a Uriah rose from its snowy bed. It wasn’t the only one. There must have been at least a hundred of the defiled things, and though none of them was on its feet, their heads were turning toward her. She had never in her life seen so many in one place—or even heard of such a thing.

The path behind was no escape. The slick mud would slow Sheen much more than it would the Uriah. Cold slowed them, but not enough. The best ways to stop them were fire and running water. There were no fires around that she could see, but running water there was aplenty.

All this took less than a second to run through her head. She squeezed Sheen with her knees, and bless his warrior’s heart, he plowed right into the meadow filled with moving mounds of snow. The Uriah howled, and Sheen redoubled his speed, leaping and dodging the creatures. One of them stood up reaching for the reins. Aralorn shot it in the eye with a bolt from the crossbow. It reeled back but recovered enough to catch Aralorn’s stirrup. Desperately she hit it hard with the butt of the crossbow, breaking the arm off the body at the shoulder. Sheen struck it with his hind feet as it fell.

The cold must have had a greater effect on their speed than she thought it would, because—much to her surprise—Aralorn made it to the ice-edged river while the Uriah were still sluggish. Sheen protested the cold water with a grunt when he hit, but struck out strongly for the other side. Aralorn took a good grip on Sheen’s mane and lay flat on the fast-running surface, letting the water take most of her weight.

The river was deep and swift, but narrow. The horse towed Aralorn to the far bank without mishap. The current had swept them far enough downstream that the Uriah were no longer in sight, but she thought that she could hear them above the rush of the water. When she turned back to mount again, she noticed that the arm she’d severed from the Uriah still held fast to her stirrup.

There was a story about a man who kept a finger from a Uriah’s hand for a trophy of war. Ten years later the Uriah who owned the finger showed up on the man’s doorstep. Aralorn didn’t believe that story, she told herself. Not really. She just wasn’t enthusiastic about riding around with a hand attached to her saddle.

Aralorn pried at it with grim haste. The thing was strangely stubborn, so she finally used an arrow as a lever to pull it away. As she worked she noticed that it wore a ring of heavy gold on a raggedly clawed finger—stolen from some poor victim, she supposed. Ren would be fascinated—Uriah were not generally looters; their primary interest was food.

She threw the arm and its ring in the river and watched in some satisfaction as it disappeared in the depths. She reloaded the crossbow from habit; it obviously wasn’t much good against Uriah. Mounting Sheen, she headed in the general direction of camp, hoping that there would be a good ford over the river between here and there.

Uriah, normal Uriah, never came where it was cold. Never. But the ae’Magi had Uriah who were—how had Wolf phrased it?—pets. A hundred of them? Ren was fond of saying that it was futile to argue with your own eyes. A hundred of them, then.

The only thing that Uriah who were the ae’Magi’s pets could be after was Myr—assuming that Wolf was correct in labeling them servants of the ae’Magi. They had obviously been caught by the storm and incapacitated by the sudden cold. Given when the storm had hit, if the snow hadn’t stopped them, they would have reached the camp early this past morning. The storm gave her a chance to bring warning.

Shaking with cold, she urged the stallion to a trot that he could maintain until they made it back to camp. As they went, she sawed at the girth and dumped the heavy saddle and bags to the ground—staying on Sheen while she did so with a trick her old troop’s first scout had taught her. The less he had to carry, the better time he could make. She retained her grip on the loaded crossbow.

The Uriah’s ring nagged at her more as she rode. That, and how to turn whatever time they had before the Uriah came into a way to survive.

The river was between the Uriah and Aralorn, but it stood between her and the camp as well. She rode as far as she could, looking for a shallow place to ford across, but there was none. The only choice was to swim again. When they came out of the water the second time, Aralorn was blue with cold, and Sheen stumbled twice before he resumed trotting. Warming was one of the easier magics she knew, but, cold and exhausted, it took her three times to get it right.

She rode right into the camp, scattering people as she went. She stopped finally in front of Myr’s tent. Drawn by the sound of horse’s hooves, Myr ducked outside just as Aralorn slipped off the stallion’s back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, taking in her appearance.

“Uriah . . . about a hundred of them. They’re coming.” Aralorn panted heavily, her voice hoarse with what was turning into the grandfather of all colds. Winter river crossings will do that. “Caves. We can defend the entrance. Leave the tents behind, but take all the food, blankets, and weapons that you can.”

He was acting before she finished speaking. The children, under the leadership of Stanis, were sent ahead with such things as they could carry. Myr had the majority of the camp packed and on the trail to the caves before anyone had time to panic.

Aralorn and Myr brought up the rear of the procession. Aralorn, listening for the Uriah behind them, chafed at the slow pace they were forced to take because most people were on foot—but then again, even a dead run would have been too slow. She walked beside her exhausted horse and hoped that Sheen wasn’t so tired that he wouldn’t give warning if the Uriah got too close.

By the time they arrived at the caves, Aralorn found herself mildly surprised that they had beaten the Uriah there. Light wasn’t a problem—light, like fire, was easy magic. Even the children could form the small balls of light that mages used in place of torches.

Myr followed Aralorn as she led Sheen into a solitary cave a hundred feet from the entrance—one big enough to hold the animals they had. “I’ve been told they can track a man as well as a hunting dog and travel faster than a man on horseback.” Myr spoke in a soft voice designed not to carry to anyone but Aralorn. “I don’t have much experience with Uriah. All that I know is that they are very hard to kill and are almost as immune to magic as I am.”

Aralorn nodded. “They don’t like fire, so make sure that there are torches ready. This lot”—she swung a hand in the general direction of the others in the cavern—“will fight better with torches than swords.”

Myr gave her a tired smile. “And no worries about how to light the torches either, with this assortment of amateur magic-users. I think that the only one who can’t light a torch with magic is I. Haris!” He caught the attention of the smith, who was organizing the storage of supplies. “I want a bonfire laid in the entrance and someone who can light it from a distance stationed somewhere safe to watch for the Uriah.”

Haris waved an acknowledgment, and Myr returned his attention to Aralorn. “There are three or four here who should be able to light the fire from a good distance. I’ll station them in relays.”

Aralorn shivered in her still-damp clothes. “We could be lucky. There is some kind of warding near the entrance. You can see the markings if you want to look. I suspect that the warding was the reason that Edom wouldn’t enter the caves. Do you remember? When he lost Astrid?” She’d given it a lot of thought and decided they’d have to plan as if the warding wasn’t there. But still, a little hope couldn’t hurt.

Myr nodded.

Aralorn continued, “If it works like the shapechangers’ spells do, the Uriah won’t even see the caves unless we are lighting fires and running in and out to attract their attention. The trail that we took up here is virtually a stream from the melting snow, so in a little while there will be no sign that we came this way. With luck, we’ll have that time. The cold makes them slower than usual. That’s the reason Sheen and I beat them here.”

“I’ll see that everyone stays inside.” Myr started to go—someone was calling his name—then turned around. “Aralorn?”

She pulled off Sheen’s bridle and vainly patted her clothing in search of something she could use to dry him off. But he was dryer than her clothing. “Yes?”

“I’ll send a couple of the older children in with toweling to dry your horse. You change your clothes, before you catch lung fever. My packs are marked over against the far wall; find something in them.”

It made sense. “Thanks.”

She made her way to his packs, unmistakable because of the embroidered dragon that glared at her as she riffled through his belongings. A true shapeshifter could probably alter the clothes that she was wearing, but Aralorn had no idea how to go about it. She pulled out a pair of plain trousers and a tunic of a dark hue and, best of all, a pair of dry cotton stockings. With clothes in hand she hunted down an unoccupied cranny and exchanged the wet clothes for the dry ones.

The oil coating on the boots worked better in snow than in rivers. The water had run in from the top and been prevented from leaving by the oil on the outside so that they were marshy inside. Aralorn dried them out as best she could and pulled them on over her newly acquired socks. She had hoped for better results.

She surveyed herself wryly when she was done. Myr was not tall—for a man—which left him only a head or so taller than she. He was, however, built like a stone wall.

Well, she thought, tugging at the front of the tunic, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about its being too tight.

The camp was starting to look organized again. Aralorn went back to check and found Sheen had been dried. He stood quietly with head lowered and one hind foot cocked up—a sure sign that he was as tired as she was.

Stanis found her there, her head resting against the horse’s neck, more asleep than awake.

“Aralorn, I think Astrid went back to camp.”

It was enough to wake her up. “What?”

“I can’t find her anywhere, an’ neither can Tobin, we searched an’ searched. She was crying all of the way up here because she left the doll her mother made her at camp. We tried to tell her that it would be all right, everyone knows that Uriah don’t eat dolls, just people. But I haven’t seen her since you came in, and neither has anyone else.”

“How many people have you told this to?” She fitted her bridle to the fastest of the camp horses. Sheen was too tired to run.

“Lots of people know I’m looking for her, but you’re the only one I told what I thought happened to her. I tried to tell Myr, but Haris was talking to him and lots of other people.”

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to sneak out of here and go look for her. I don’t want you to tell anyone that I’ve gone.” There was no use sending out more than one person. She was more than enough to bring back one little girl if the Uriah hadn’t found her yet. If they had made it to camp, then there was no sense in sending more people to die. “Keep looking for her here. She was pretty excited about the man who helped her find her way out of the caves. She may have just wandered deeper into the cave to see if she could find him. Wait until Myr isn’t busy, then tell him where I’ve gone. That should take long enough that I’ll either be back or I’m not coming back. Tell him that I said not to send anyone else after me. There aren’t enough people to spare. I’m just going to sneak down to our camp and see if I can spot her. If I don’t see her, I’ll ride right back up.”

She paused only long enough to get her sword. As she belted it on, the thought occurred to her that if she were going to have to keep using it against Uriah, it would behoove her to get more proficient at using the plaguing thing.

It wasn’t easy, with her limited magical powers, to sneak through a cave filled with magic-users, albeit weak ones. The gelding, sulky at leaving the other horses munching dinner, didn’t make matters any easier. She almost left him behind, but although he made it a little bit more difficult to escape undetected, he also gave her an edge if the Uriah were there.

Once out of the occupied caves, she gave up trying to remain unseen. The guards didn’t challenge her as she took the horse past them. They were looking for Uriah coming in, not people going out.

The camp gelding was a lot skinnier than Sheen and not so well trained. She stayed off the trails and followed a creek bed to the far side of the valley near Wolf’s camp, so the Uriah couldn’t easily follow her back trail to the caves. It wasn’t until she got to the valley that she realized that Astrid would have followed the main trail down and back.

Tired and cold and stupid.

It was quiet and peaceful, so she turned the horse directly toward camp. He took three strides forward, stiffened, and spooked wildly. She clung to his back, cursing silently, as the animal’s distressed cry and crashing branches gave whatever had scared him no doubt that there was someone riding on the mountainside above them.

Apparently the ae’Magi’s pets were capable of stealth.

She’d just gotten the horse under control when she heard a whistle from down below.

She would have known it anywhere. Talor had always been tone deaf—giving his signals a peculiar flat sound all their own, as well as making it unclear exactly what he was signaling. In this case it could have been either “all clear” or “help.” Given the circumstance, Aralorn picked the latter.

Without hesitation, she urged the horse down the slope. The only excuse that she had for her action was that she was exhausted and reacting from instinct. Gods bless them, was all she could think, somehow Ren had known. Somehow he’d sent them help from Sianim.

Her borrowed horse was not as sure-footed as Sheen and fought her all the way down. The horse made a lot of noise and ended up sliding most of the way on a small avalanche of his own making.

The gelding was still sliding uncontrollably when she ran into a small group of Uriah. As they easily pulled down her mount, Aralorn jumped clear, hoping that the horse, poor thing, would distract most of them and give her a chance to find either Talor or Astrid.

Her jump took her clear of the feeding frenzy and earned her only a scraped shin and modest bruises. By the time she regained her feet, there were two Uriah nearly upon her. She used the split second before they attacked to search for a possible escape, but everywhere she looked there were more of them converging.

Bleakly, she thought of another of Ren’s homilies—rashness eventually exacts a full, fell price. She used her sword in a useless attempt to defend herself and waited to die.

It seemed like it took forever. She swung, and limbs fell, still writhing as if unwilling to accede to death with somber dignity. She swung until her arms were heavy and her tendons burned like slow acid in her shoulders. Her body was covered with myriad scrapes.

Surprisingly, none of her wounds was in itself serious; but collectively, they sapped her strength and dulled her reflexes. The Uriah just kept coming. The horse’s screams had stopped, for which she was profoundly thankful. It had been stupid of her to come running; any human who had been here was beyond anyone’s ability to help. The gelding had died for her foolishness, and she would soon follow.

She had little talent as a mindspeaker, but she sent a distress cry on a thread of magic to Wolf or any gods who happened to be listening anyway. Then she bit her lip and grimly hacked away.

Her arms were numb by the time that it dawned on her what was going on. She timed her strokes to the refrain in her head: stupid, stupid, silly bitch.

They could have killed her anytime they wanted to, but they didn’t want to. They were trying to capture her to take back to the ae’Magi for questioning. The thought of that redoubled her efforts. If she could win herself enough space, she could draw her knife and eliminate the chance of being questioned by the ae’Magi again. Her sword, although shorter than normal, was still too awkward to kill herself with before they stopped her.

She spun around, slicing a creature open across the belly when she heard some disturbance behind her, more a lack of attackers than a noise. She caught a quick glimpse of Talor’s face before she struck. Frantically, she avoided hitting him by a narrow margin, leaving her sword in an awkward place for defense. But that was all right, because it was Talor.

She blinked sweat out of her eyes. Something was wrong with him. Bile rose in her throat as she brought the sword back up again, but before she could strike she was caught from behind and held helpless.

What happened next was enough to top her worst nightmares. Talor smiled—and it was Talor despite the rotting flesh—and it said in Talor’s teasing voice, “I told you to always follow through on your strokes, or you would never make a swordmaster.”

She thought that she screamed then, but it might have been just the sound of a Uriah lucky enough to feast on the horse.