Masques

TWO

Aralorn breathed in ragged gasps and rubbed a shaky hand across the wetness on her cheeks. Sweating, and still half-caught in her nightmare, she curled under her blanket and covered her ears with her hands to shut out the soft seductive voice of the ae’Magi.

She’d fought in the regular troops and knew that nightmares were part of the territory. They’d get better, but for right now, every time she drifted to sleep, her dreams all led back to the Archmage’s fine-boned hand holding the ornate silver dagger he used to butcher his sacrifices. The young brown-eyed boy, no older than some of her brothers the last time she’d seen them, was so caught by the spell that he smiled as the ae’Magi drew his knife. At least it was daylight when she opened her eyes—and the dirt under the leather comprising the outer layer of her bedroll felt a lot different from marble.

She sat up abruptly and wiped at her wet cheeks. Sheen stood nearby, dozing with one hind foot cocked and his convex nose lowered almost to knee level. Near Sheen, Wolf lay still, his muzzle on his paws. He was looking away from her. Aralorn knew that he must have heard her when she woke up, so his inattention was deliberate. Her momentary fear had hurt him—she hadn’t realized he worried about her opinion. She hadn’t thought he worried much about anyone’s opinion of him.

She addressed his back. “That place—it . . . twists everything. There is so much magic in the castle, it makes the air heavy, and when I breathed it . . . He loves it, you know—playing games and making people into his puppets. Power.”

She shuddered slightly, and continued, “I watched him drink the blood of a child he’d just killed, and I found myself thinking how beautifully the light of the candles reflected off his hair. It’s . . . not pleasant not to know whether your feelings are your own.” She brought her legs up until she could wrap her arms around them.

She’d begun in an attempt to explain herself to Wolf—to show him that it wasn’t him she’d distrusted but her own perceptions. Once she’d started talking, she couldn’t stop. “I have never been so frightened in my entire life,” she whispered. “I always thought that I was strong-willed, but even with my mother’s blood to help me resist the spells, I couldn’t completely block the feeling that I wanted to please him.” Her voice died.

For a long time there were only the sounds of the forest—the wind in the trees, a creek nearby, and a cricket singing.

She sighed. “I might have been able to block it entirely toward the last—when I knew what the spells were and how he worked them; but I couldn’t, because I had to act as if the spell were having its effect on me. Sometimes I think . . . that maybe I didn’t want to block the spell because it made me feel so much better . . .” She knew that she would have bruises in the morning from gripping herself so hard. She took a shuddering breath and put her forehead down on her knees. “I can’t get him out of my mind. I think some of it is still his magic, but I see his face every time I close my eyes.”

Slowly, Wolf stood up and left his place. He sat down and leaned against her. She loosed her grip on her legs and ran a hand in the thick pelt.

A cold nose worked its way under her arm, and his warm, wet tongue licked at her chin until she squealed and pulled away with a quavering laugh, wiping at her face with her sleeves.

The wolf smiled, as wolves do, and rolled over against her on his back. She rubbed his stomach (something that he didn’t allow in public) and one back leg snapped rapidly back and forth as she caught just the right spot.

After he felt he had cheered her up, he said in his usual cool voice that sounded wrong coming out of a wolf getting his stomach rubbed, “Don’t worry about it, Lady. Living in that place for any length of time will twist your thoughts and feelings until what you feel and what he wants you to feel are tangled together in a knot that would baffle a sailor.” His voice was gentler, sounding like velvet on gravel. “Time will help.”

“I know,” replied Aralorn, then continued in a lighter tone, “but I’m not looking forward to the next decade or so.”

Wolf rolled over with improbable quickness and nipped her lightly on the hand in response to her quip, tacitly agreeing with her unspoken decision that the discussion was too serious.

Aralorn tilted her head to the side, a slow grin twisting her lips. “So you want to fight, do you?” She tackled him and began a wrestling match that left them both flat on the ground and panting.

“Will you be able to sleep now?” he asked, rather hoarsely, even for him. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.”

She nodded and rolled over until she was on the bedding, unwilling to use enough energy to get up and walk. She mumbled a good night that lost most of its consonants. He touched his nose to her cheek and woofed softly before curling up against her.

In the end, it was the stallion that woke them both. The high-pitched whistle split the night.

Aralorn leapt to her feet and had the bed rolled up almost before she opened her eyes. Bridling and saddling took somewhat longer as the obstinate beast wouldn’t stand still. As she worked, she kept an eye on the wolf as he stared into the night. At his signal, she left what was not already attached to the saddle and mounted the stallion, who was already trotting. Although not built for running, Sheen managed a very credible speed as he followed the wolf’s lead. The Uriah were close enough behind them that they could hear the howls the beasts made when they found their camp.

Aralorn had fought the Uriah before, and she knew that they were faster than any horse—certainly faster than Sheen. The creatures were too close behind and gaining quickly. She drew her sword and slowed the stallion in preparation for facing them.

Noticing that Sheen was slowing, the wolf darted back and nipped at the stallion’s heels, nimbly dodging the war-trained horse’s well-placed kick.

“No,” Wolf snarled at her. “You don’t stand a chance against the number that we have behind us. If you keep going, I can lure them away.” With that, he began to veer off, but Aralorn guided Sheen to block his path.

She shook her head and shouted over the sounds of the Uriah, “It’s me that they want. They won’t follow you, and even if they did, it would mean that you would have to face them alone. Together, we might stand a chance.”

“You know better than that, Lady.” His tones rang with impatience. “Against two or three maybe, but there are many more than that. You needn’t worry about me, I can keep ahead of them on my own.” Here the wolf paused a moment, as if he were choosing his words carefully. “They will follow me if given a choice between the two of us.”

“What do you mean by that?” Then, before he could answer, she said, “Cursed obscure Wolf. Never mind. We don’t have time to argue.” It was getting difficult to talk and keep Sheen from bolting as the howls grew nearer.

He flashed his fangs at her in a mock smile as only a wolf can do. “Lady, this isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with them. Nor will it be the last.”

She didn’t want to leave him. If she hadn’t known he was no ordinary wolf, she wouldn’t have even considered leaving. But, against so many Uriah, she would have been more of a hindrance than a help. She heard the wails of the Uriah increase exponentially as they sighted their prey.

“Right,” she said abruptly. “I’ll see you in Sianim. But, plague it, Wolf, take care not to let them ruin your fur coat.” With that, she turned Sheen in their original direction and urged him on. The wolf stayed in the path of the Uriah and watched with yellow eyes as they came closer. When the tone of their calls changed and became even more frantic, he broke into a swift run, leading them away from the path taken by his companions. Aralorn, looking back, saw that Wolf had been correct: All of the grotesque, humanoid forms followed the wolf’s trail, ignoring her entirely.

She wondered, this time without last night’s panic, exactly who Wolf really was. It wasn’t a new puzzle, by any means. She had a list somewhere of possible identities for Wolf. Some of them were vague, others were names of specific people—today she added another name to it: Cain, the ae’Magi’s son. Cain was younger than she’d placed Wolf’s age, and she’d never caught a whiff of human magic off Wolf. She’d be surprised if Cain wasn’t buried with the other people the ae’Magi had been killing, whose magic he had been stealing to use for himself. But wasn’t it interesting the way the ae’Magi’s creatures took off after the wolf?

Aralorn traveled during the dark and slept, or at least tried to rest, during the day—not because it was safer that way but because she couldn’t stand to wake from her nightmares alone in the dark. Sometimes she traveled for miles without seeing anything. Being alone didn’t bother her; she’d done a lot of traveling on her own.

She had nothing of value except her warhorse and her sword—and both were as much a deterrent as a prize. On the evening of the third day, she left the forested mountains behind for the gentler hills and valleys of the lowlands. Traveling was faster, and it was only another day until she caught sight of Sianim.

The fortressed city stood on the top of an artificial plateau in the middle of a large valley. Nothing but grass was allowed to grow within a half mile of the hill, and even that was kept short. The plateau itself was steep-sided, and the road that led to the only gate into the city was narrow and walled, so that only three people could ride side by side through it. Although it was good for defense, the narrow path made it a nightmare to get large groups of soldiers in and out of Sianim.

The origins of the city were buried in the dust of ages past: Even the oldest known manuscripts mentioned it as a thriving city. Originally it had been a center of trade, but the small armies hired by the merchants to accompany their wagon trains drew mercenaries from all over. People looking for groups of mercenaries to hire began to go to Sianim. Gradually, the mercenaries themselves became the center of Sianim’s economy. A school for teaching the arts of war was founded, and eventually Sianim became a city of professional warriors.

Mercenaries of Sianim were some of the finest fighters in the world. With the only other military school at Jetaine, which had the minor drawback of allowing no males entrance within its walls, Sianim had little competition. In addition to training its own mercenary troops, Sianim also trained fighters for various kingdoms and principalities for a healthy fee. The elite guard for most of the rulers were Sianim-trained.

Because politics and war go hand in hand, Sianim also had a spy network that would have amazed an outsider. It was run by a slender, short academian. It was to his small office tucked away in the rabbit warren that was the back of the government building in the center of town that Aralorn went after stabling Sheen.

Someone needed to know as soon as possible the danger that Geoffrey ae’Magi presented.

Stairs and narrow hallways connected little rooms occupied by bureaucrats necessary to the successful and profitable running of the mercenary city: taxes and licenses and all. And buried away down a stairway behind a worn door that nonetheless opened and closed tightly and soundlessly was a large, airy room with a window (she’d never managed to figure out which window it was from the outside) that housed the man whose fingers dipped into the well of rumors and politics that drove the world.

She slipped through the worn door without knocking—if the Spymaster had wanted privacy, the door would have been locked. She closed the door, sat on a ratty-looking chair, and waited patiently for Ren, known semiaffectionately as the Mouse, to acknowledge her.

He was perched on top of his battered-but-sturdy desk, leaning back against a bookshelf and reading aloud from a collection of poems by Thyre. He was only a little older than Aralorn, but he appeared as though someone had put him out to dry and forgotten to take him back in again.

His hair had faded and thinned until it no longer concealed the scalp beneath. His hands were ink-stained and soft, free of calluses, though she knew he was an excellent swordsman and for a time, before he came to Sianim, had made a living as a duelist in several of the Alliance cities. Only his sharp eyes distracted from the impression of vagueness, and at that moment they were hidden from her as he kept his attention on the lines he read.

Thyre wasn’t one of her favorites; he reached too hard for his rhyme. Usually, she would have fished out a book from Ren’s impressive library and read until he decided to question her; but today she just sat quietly, listening, finally stretching out on the padded bench and closing her eyes. Since Thyre was notoriously long-winded, she had plenty of time to rest.

When Ren finished, she was snoozing peacefully, and the soft sound the book made as Ren stuffed it into one of the many bookcases made her jump to her feet. He offered her a glass he filled from the bottle on his desk.

Aralorn accepted it but sipped cautiously. Bottles on Ren’s desk could contain anything from water to Wyth, more affectionately known as Dragonslayer. This time it was fehlta juice, only a mildly alcoholic drink, but she set it down on the end of his desk. She had the rueful feeling that it would be a long time before she would take anything that could cloud her thoughts. She sat back down on the bench and waited . . . and waited.

When Ren finally spoke he sounded almost nervous to her sensitive ears. “I trust that everything went smoothly as usual, hmm? Got in, got out, came here.”

“Yes. I—” He cut her off before she could speak.

“Did you talk to him about the assassination attempt?” Ren strolled around his desk and resumed his seat.

“No, the—”

“Good,” he said, breaking in once again before she could continue. “I would hate to have him upset with us, or think that we were spying on him—although I doubt that he would mind. I’m sure he would have understood that we gather information whenever we can. I trust that you were either able to put a halt to the assassins or discovered that the rumor I sent you to investigate was just a rumor.”

Aralorn tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair and contemplated Ren. His babbling didn’t bother her, he always talked like that. He once told her that it distracted people, and they said things that they wouldn’t normally have said—just to get him to shut up. She’d used the technique herself upon occasion and found it effective.

What did bother her was that he wasn’t listening. Usually, he listened carefully to everything she said, then quizzed her for hours about what she’d heard and seen. It just wasn’t like him to gloss over anything or stop anyone from speaking. He never, not ever, interrupted. The bright black, somewhat beady eyes shifted restlessly.

She had never seen him embarrassed before, so it took her a while to identify the emotion that brought a red tinge to his face. Ren was ashamed that he had sent her to spy on the ae’Magi—the same Ren who had once sent her to spy on his own brother.

None of her disquiet showed on her face. She didn’t want to heed the intuition that was hinting that something was awry. She wanted to give her report with no more than the usual lies: Not even Ren knew that she could alter her shape. Shapeshifters used wild magic—and this was a world that had learned to fear magic used without strict limits.

She wanted to ignore the insistent disquiet that the Mouse’s unusual reactions spawned, but she couldn’t. With visions of the docile people in the ae’Magi’s ballroom in her head, she bowed her head and waited.

She’d never heard anyone say anything against the ae’Magi—only Wolf. The people the ae’Magi had brought out to sacrifice to his magic had come willingly. Only Wolf knew what he was—and he hadn’t really told her until he was certain she knew what she’d gotten herself into.

While Ren talked, she carefully edited what she was going to tell him, waiting as he drifted from topic to topic until he got around to asking her about her mission.

Aralorn gave him a brief description of her method of entry, incorrect, of course. Someday Ren would find out just how poor she was at picking iron locks and would be deeply disappointed.

Ren needed to know about the ae’Magi, but somehow she found herself rattling on at length about the various heads of state at the dance the ae’Magi had held and obligingly going into as much detail as she could when Ren requested it. Evidently, he was only upset about her spying on the ae’Magi—otherwise, he wanted to know everything. He could pull surprising conclusions out of the smallest thing.

“Wearing a red cape?” he said, after she’d described what one of the Anthran demiprinces was wearing. “It was a gift from his sister’s husband—looks like peace talks between their territories might be on again. We’ll be able to pull those troops out and use them elsewhere.”

She hedged when he asked her about Myr, saying only that she’d seen him talk with the ae’Magi but hadn’t been near enough to hear what was said. Time enough to inform Ren of the young king’s interesting talent after she discovered what was making the Spymaster behave so out of character.

To distract him from Myr, Aralorn continued to the main reason for her mission and said with some caution, “I couldn’t find any information on an assassination attempt. If there is a plot, it doesn’t originate from within the castle. I did get the impression that if there was such an attempt, the ae’Magi would be perfectly capable of handling it without need for our aid.”

She paused, to give herself time to choose just the right words. “I left early, I know. But I felt so uncomfortable.” Uncomfortable was true, uncomfortable enough to curl into a quivering ball of jelly at the bottom of that cage. “I thought that I had better get out before he figured out who I was and took offense. If it were widely known that Sianim spied upon the ae’Magi, half the world would be angry at us.”

“Ah yes, I quite understand.” Ren nodded and picked up another book—his habitual method of dismissal.

If she needed confirmation that something was awry, she had it then. Ren would never, ever accept “uncomfortable” as a reason for leaving an assignment early without picking the vague term into pieces. Unhappy, and baffled by what to do about it, she exited the room.

Alone, Ren put his book down and rubbed his hands together with great satisfaction. If that performance didn’t cause Aralorn to start thinking, then nothing would. He needed her to be suspicious and questioning, but also cautious.

He’d had a feeling about her—she got out of too many situations that should have been fatal—and those eyes. He’d seen that color of eyes before. He had wizards who worked for him, but they’d have been useless. The office of ae’Magi existed to control them.

She’d come right to him, and she was well and truly spooked, he thought, though he flattered himself that no one else would have been able to read that in her.

He couldn’t afford to come out and warn her; the ae’Magi had his own ways of learning things . . . and if anyone would be subject to the Archmage’s watchful eye, it would be the Spymaster of Sianim.

He rubbed his chest, pressing into his skin the charm he wore on a thong. A gift from a friend, another mage, it was supposed to be able to dispel magic aimed at its wearer. It dated from sometime around the old Wizard Wars and, his friend had told him, was unlikely to still have the power to block a spell directed specifically at him. It had been given as a curiosity—from one collector to another.

He still wasn’t absolutely sure it worked, but he’d been wearing it day and night for the past few months. So far he seemed to be immune to the odd fervor that had taken most of the usually sensible people he reported to when he chose. He patted his chest again and worried, though his ma had taught him that worry did no one any good.

If Aralorn’s footsteps were quiet, it was out of habit rather than intent: She was deep in thought as she wandered down the cobbled street. She absently waved at acquaintances but didn’t stop to talk. She shivered a little, though it was warm enough out. Why was Ren acting as if he’d never had a suspicious thought about the ae’Magi? Ren was suspicious of everybody.

More by chance than design, she found the dormitory where she stored her few possessions, and retreated through the halls to her room.

It was musty after her prolonged absence and in desperate need of dusting. There were only a few pieces of worn furniture placed here and there, but the room was small enough that it still seemed cluttered. She spent so little time in it that size and clutter didn’t matter.

Aralorn sneezed once, then, ignoring the much-abused chair, she sat on the rough stone floor that was unrelieved by carpet or fur.

Never before had Ren seemed worried about where he sent her to spy. He cared little for politics, leaving that to the statesmen to whom he gave selected bits of information. Instead, he thirsted for knowledge the way that some men thirst for food or sex. It was from him that she had gleaned many of the folkstories she collected.

He was no respecter of persons, not ever. When she had protested her assignment with the ae’Magi, he had laughed at her and quoted her his favorite saying: “He who does no wrong need not fear perusal.” He used it so often and said it with such pride that she suspected that he had made it up himself.

When he sent her to the castle, he’d made it clear that although nominally she was investigating the “assassination attempt,” her main objective would be to gather information on Geoffrey ae’Magi. Why else would he send her when a simple note of warning would have done the same thing? She had, even at the time, suspected that there was no assassination plot except in the Mouse’s busy labyrinthian mind.

All of which led her back to her original question: Why was Ren troubled about her spying on the ae’Magi? Had the ae’Magi bespelled Ren? If so, why? And worse, who else had he taken?

Aralorn sat for a while and came to no brilliant conclusions. It was better than worrying about the wolf—though she did that as well. Fretting about one was about as useful as fretting about the other—so she, being a believer in using her resources properly, gave equal time to each.

Finally, tired in mind and body, she stripped off her clothes and threw them on the floor. She stretched out carefully, slowly working each muscle until it was relatively limber. She pulled off the top covering of her cot, careful to leave most of the dust on it. Then she collapsed onto the bed and slept.

The nightmare came back—it wasn’t as bad as it had been the first few days, but it was bad enough. She was only half-awake when she touched the wall that her cot sat against and thought for a minute that she was back in the cage.

She rolled away from it quickly and landed with a thump, fully awake and surrounded by a cloud of dust from the blanket on the floor.

She sneezed several times, swore, and wiped her watering eyes. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to get any more sleep for a while, so she lit a small lamp and dressed, pulling on her practice garments—knee-length leather boots, loose breeches, and tunic.

Night had fallen, but the nice thing about being home in Sianim was that even in the busy summer season, there were always people in the practice arenas willing to go a few rounds; mercenaries tended to keep strange hours. She strapped on sword and daggers and slipped out the window and onto the narrow ledge just below.

Gingerly, she traversed the narrow pathway until it was possible to drop onto the roof of the building next door. From there it was only a short jump to the ground. It would have been easier to exit by normal means, but she took opportunities to practice wherever she could get them.

Outside, the street torches were already lit for the night, but people were still wandering around. There was a friendly brawl going on at one of the pubs, with bystanders betting on the outcome.

She inhaled deeply. The smell of Sianim was a fusion of sweat, horse, dust, and . . . freedom.

Aralorn had grown up stifled by the restraints placed on women of the high aristocracy, even bastards like her. Reth might have outlawed slavery, but women of high estate were surrounded by a wall of rules strong enough to confine any drudge. If it hadn’t been for her father, she might have been forced into a traditional role.

When the Lyon of Lambshold’s illegitimate daughter came to him and stated her objections to the constant needlepoint and etiquette lessons that his wife imposed on his daughters, he’d laughed—then taught her to ride like a man. He also taught her to fight with sword and staff. When she left home, he sent her off with his favorite warhorse.

She had tried Jetaine but found that the women there were enslaved to their hatred of men. Aralorn had never hated men, she just hadn’t wanted to sit and sew all her life. She’d often wondered what it would have been like for her if she’d been born a merchant’s daughter, or someone who had to work for a living, instead of an aristocrat, who was expected to be decorative.

The thought of herself as decoration was absurd. Even before she’d become battle-scarred, she’d been short, plain, and too willing to speak her own mind.

Two big men in the rough, hooded garb favored by the farmers who serviced the town had been following her for the past few blocks, and now they were getting close enough to be worth paying attention to. Sianim might be used to women in its ranks, but outsiders could be bothersome, expecting a woman wearing pants and a sword to be a woman of loose morals who would sleep with any man who asked. A simple refusal could end in a nasty fight.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the pair slink behind a cart she’d just passed. Her left hand went automatically to her sword. Her right already held a dagger. One of the thugs said to the other in a stage whisper meant to carry to her, “Squelch you, Talor, you lumbering ox. She saw us again. I told you to change those shoes. They make too much noise.”

She laughed and spun around to face them, her dagger tucked invisibly back into her sleeve sheath. “You’re getting better, though. This time I honestly thought that you were just a couple of outsiders looking for prey.”

The second one pushed the first sideways with a playful punch. “See, Kai? I told you that we’d do better blending in with the environment. Who pays attention to a couple of hog lovers in this place?”

Kai twitched one eyebrow upward, managing, despite the dirt on his clothes, to look aristocratic. “However, if you had worn the shoes I told you to . . .” He let his voice trail off and flashed the wicked grin he shared with his twin brother.

With practiced ease, he slipped out of his assumed character and flung an arm around Aralorn’s neck. “Well, my dear, it looks like I have you at my mercy.” Or at least that’s what he meant to say. Actually, thought Aralorn, the last word sounded more like “eyah” than “mercy.”

She turned to Talor, and said, “I need to bathe in muck more often. It seems to work better than throwing him on the ground and making him look silly like I did the last time he tried to kiss me, don’t you think?”

Old friends—the perfect answer to the frightening feeling that she was all alone. She’d served with both of them right up until the Spymaster had pulled her to his office and informed her she was changing jobs. Her gift of manipulating her superior officers had been noted as well as her ability to act without direct orders. Ren had been right—she was far better suited to spying than to warfare. Still, it was a lonely profession and she treasured her friends from the old days. Especially the ones smart enough that she didn’t have to lie. Talor and Kai were sharp and knew how not to ask questions.

Talor assumed a serious demeanor, but before he could say whatever he intended to, Kai broke in. “Tell me, Lady, what villain gave you that perfume? Surely it must be cursed. Let me slay him for you that you may once again be your sweet-smelling self.”

“I’d almost gotten used to smelling like this,” she said truthfully. She’d slept like this on her bed, she remembered. She’d have to pull off all the bedding and take it to the laundry for cleaning. “I was going to go to the practice ring, but I think that I’ll head to the baths first. Interested in a little fun?” Kai brightened comically until she added, “In the ring.”

Kai bowed low. “To my sorrow, I have a previous engagement.” He slanted her a grin. “Do you remember that redhead in the Thirty-second?”

“Uhm-hmm.” She raised an eyebrow, shook her head, and in an exaggeratedly sorrowful tone said, “Poor girl, doomed to a broken heart.” She grinned, and added, “Have a good time, Kai.” He waved and sauntered away.

Aralorn looked at Talor, and inquired, “Does he really have a date with Sera?”

He laughed. “Probably not, but he will. Mostly, I think, his skin is still too thin from the last time you put him down. The whole squad ribbed him about being beaten by a woman for weeks. I, on the other hand, have no pride and, after you rid yourself of the unfair advantage you now hold”—he grabbed his nose with a hand to show her what he meant—“I will be awaiting you at the Hawk and Hound.”

“Done.” She gave him a mock salute and headed for the baths.

In one of the sparring rings that, like many of the taverns around town, the Hawk and Hound provided, Aralorn faced Talor warily with a single body-length staff held lightly in her hands.

Normally, they were evenly matched with the long staff, Talor being a better fighter than his brother, but Aralorn was still stiff. They fought together often because no one else wanted to face either of them with staves, long or short, in serious sparring.

As a warm-up, they played with variations on the training dances, and rather than aiming for body shots, the object was to hit a small metal plate, which dangled from a belt. Normally, there would be a third to call shots fair or foul and award points at the sound of wood striking metal, but she and Talor were veterans and cared more for the sport than for the winning or losing.

The ring that they had chosen was in the basement of the tavern rather than the one on the main floor, so they had no spectators. By mutual consent, they stopped for a bit to rest before they proceeded out of the standard patterns for some real sparring.

“So, what was that smell anyway? It seems somewhat familiar, but I just can’t place it. Something like a cross between an outhouse and a pig barn.” Talor’s voice was a bit unsteady because he was stretching out as he talked.

Breathing ridiculously hard from such light exertion, Aralorn leaned unashamedly against one of the waist-high walls that surrounded the ring. She was paying for her confinement and the long ride home with her lack of stamina.

She started to think up a reason for the moat smell but decided that there was no harm in letting him know what she’d been doing. Kai and Talor didn’t ask questions, and they also knew when to keep their mouths shut. There was nothing secret about what she had done, now that she was out of there. And it would be good to talk to Talor about what she’d found. She wouldn’t go so far as to tell him about Ren, though. She needed to think about what had happened.

“Unless you’ve been visiting the ae’Magi’s castle lately,” she said, “it probably wouldn’t be too familiar. I only wish the ae’Magi was half as honest and sweet-smelling as his moat . . .” Conditioned reflexes were the only thing that brought her staff up to deflect his from her face. The sheer force of the blow numbed her hands, as she hadn’t been holding the staff in a proper grip.

She ducked underneath his arm to come to the center of the arena and give herself some room for maneuvering. The move also gave her a chance to talk. “What are you doing?”

Talor’s face twisted with wrath as he came after her. “How dare you, worthless bitch? How dare you sharpen your tongue on the ae’Magi?”

It was his rage that saved her, interfering with the timing and precision of his attacks. Time and time again, she was able to block or turn aside his furious blows.

This unchecked anger was unlike him: A good warrior strives above all for control. She knew something was terribly wrong, but his ruthless barrage left no more time for speculation or analysis. She cleared her mind and concentrated on staying alive.

Finally, one of his swings caught her hard behind the back of her knees and she fell backward, letting his staff carry her legs up with it. She turned the fall into a roll, going over onto her shoulders and coming up on her feet. As soon as she was upright, she raised her staff to guard position, trying to protect her face and torso.

The roll had forced her to take her eyes from her opponent, and she barely saw the flicker of movement as his staff came under her defenses. Rather than the standard sweep-strike, Talor had chosen to thrust. The end of the staff caught her low in the chest and drove the breath out of her body. Without the protective padding she wore, it would have broken ribs. Had his staff struck just a few finger-widths higher, it would have been fatal, padding or not.

She twisted frantically to the side, trying to dive out of striking range. It was a desperate maneuver, exposing her vulnerable back to her opponent, and after the blow she’d just received, she knew she was moving far too slowly. Even as she moved, she waited for his strike—knowing that there was no way for her to evade the impact of the metal-shod staff.

The blow didn’t come. She completed the diving roll and snapped to her feet, staff poised and lungs working desperately for air.

Talor stood in the middle of the ring, leaning against his staff. He shook his head like a wet dog, then looked up at her in dazed bewilderment. “I don’t know what came over . . . Are you all right, Aralorn?”

“Fine.” She gasped the word out, her diaphragm not operating quite correctly yet. “Don’t . . . worry about it. No harm done, and I . . . needed a workout. Your stick work has improved, but you’re still a little slow on your returns . . . Watch your hands. You hold on too tightly when you’re mad, and it makes it easier for your opponent to force you to drop your staff.”

As she got her breath back, she made her tone more baiting, trying to get him to forget what had happened. If she was correct about the cause, then it would do him more harm than good to worry about it. It scared her that the ae’Magi’s magic was able to do what it was doing. It was just possible that he would have chosen to turn Ren into one of his puppets—but Talor had no political power. If he was affected, then she had to believe that most people in Sianim would be touched by the ae’Magi’s magic: They all belonged to him. The thought of how much power that would take terrified her.

Talor took the refuge she offered. “You need to pay more attention to your opponent’s eyes. You watch the body too much, and that doesn’t give you much advance warning. If you’d been watching more closely, you could have avoided that last hit.”

She dropped her staff and waved her hands out in the traditional surrender, and said, “Okay, you beat me. My reputation is in tatters. Just do me one favor and don’t tell your brother about it. Last time you beat me, he challenged me, then I had to put up with his sulks for a week.” It was important to act naturally.

“You only got it for a week because we had to go out on maneuvers. He sulked for almost a month. Okay, I won’t tell him. Besides”—here he struck up an obviously false pose and looked down his nose at her—“it ill becomes a man to brag about beating a woman.”

For all of his humor, Aralorn could tell that he was feeling uncomfortable. She wished she was only uncomfortable. She wasn’t surprised when Talor excused himself though they generally would have drunk a couple of rounds before they left. When she turned to watch him leave, she noticed the wolf lying just inside the doorway, his head on his front paws. Talor stooped and patted him on the back, which Wolf answered with a small movement of his tail, but his clear yellow eyes never wavered from Aralorn’s face.

Aralorn waited until Talor was gone before dropping exhausted to the floor, her back against the barrier. She patted the space beside her in invitation. The wolf obligingly got up, trotted over, and resumed his relaxed pose, substituting Aralorn’s shins as his chin rest.

They sat like that for a while, Aralorn running her hand through the thick fur—separating the coarse dark hair from the softer, lighter-colored undercoat. When her breathing had returned almost to normal, she broke the silence.

“It’s good to have you back,” she commented. “I take it that they didn’t kill you.”

“I think that is a safe assumption to make.” His voice was more noncommittal than it usually was.

She gave him a halfhearted grin.

“How long had you been watching?”

“Long enough to see you put your foot in it and almost let that clumsy young fool remove you from this life.”

She obligingly rose to his bait. “Clumsy? I’ll have you know that he is the second-best staffsman in Sianim.”

“You being the first?” Amusement touched his voice.

She cuffed him lightly. “And you know it, too.”

“It looked to me as if he had you beaten. You might have to step into second place.” He paused, and said in a quieter voice, “Finally noticed that people are a bit touchy concerning the ae’Magi, have you?”

She gave him an assessing look. “Has it been going on for a long time?”

He grunted an affirmative. “I first saw it about a year ago, but recently it has gotten much more intense.”

“It seems to be some sort of variation of the spells that he had at his castle, but I didn’t think that anyone could create a spell of this magnitude alone.” Aralorn’s tone was questioning.

“He’s not doing it alone,” replied the wolf. “He started small. The villages near the ae’Magi’s castle have quite a few inhabitants who are strong in magic. The side effect of having so many young virile magicians apprenticing at the castle for several hundred generations.” His tone was ironic. “The adults that he couldn’t subdue he killed because their deaths provide more of a kick to his power than people with no magic at all. But the ones he craves are the children, who have raw power and no training . . .”

Aralorn shuddered and rubbed her arms as if chilled.

“You’ve seen what he does with the children.” Wolf’s tone gentled. “Fifteen years ago, if you made a negative remark about the ae’Magi, only the reaction of the villagers just outside the castle would be as strong as Talor’s. Now the streets of that village are empty of all but old men and women because the rest are dead. He has taken them and used them. As far away as Sianim, people are affected by the ae’Magi’s spell. He needs still more prey to continue to increase the strength of his magic, so he’s looking elsewhere. Sianim, I think, is merely getting the backlash of the main focus.”

“What is the main focus?” she asked.

“Where is magic at its strongest? Where do many of the common villagers have the ability to work charms? Where has magic flourished, protected by strong rulers from the persecution that magic-users were subject to after the great wars?”

“Reth,” she answered.

“Reth,” he agreed.

“Crud,” she said with feeling.