Masques s-1 Read online

  “Afraid of the dark, princeling?” A swarthy man stepped out of the crowd. His face was unfamiliar, so he must have arrived after Wolf left. He was an aristocrat, from his clothes—less impressed with the king than the peasants were.

  Wolf spoke then from the darkness of the entryway, almost not recognizing his own voice. “As you should be,” he said. “If I were he, I would send you out on your own to find out what happens to fools in the dark.”

  Wolf stepped to the left of Myr, clearly revealing himself in the light of Myr’s torch. When he was sure that all eyes were upon him, he took his human form with all the theatrics that even the ae’Magi could have used. Masked and cloaked, he stood with a hand on his glowing staff that made Myr’s torch look like a candle.

  “As it happens, though, it is unnecessary for anyone to go out. Astrid is dead.” Wolf pitched his voice so that it carried to everyone in the room without echoing. “I found her remains as well as those of the horse that Aralorn was riding. I found no trace of Aralorn’s body. I suspect that she is a prisoner of the ae’Magi.”

  He had to quit speaking after those words left his throat. From the reaction of the people facing him, he could tell that they hadn’t realized that this attack, too, had been engineered by the ae’Magi. He couldn’t work up the effort to care. As long as the ae’Magi didn’t know that Wolf was here helping Myr and as long as he didn’t know what Aralorn was to him, the Archmage probably wouldn’t torture Aralorn himself—he wouldn’t consider any information she had to be vital. She had to be important enough that he didn’t just kill her for the power he might gain, but not so important that he concentrated on her himself. That would buy Wolf time. It would keep her alive for him to find. It all rested upon how independent Edom had been.

  The ae’Magi tended to give his tools more autonomy because he could trust that they had his best interests at heart. So Wolf would believe that he had time to find Aralorn. He had to believe he had time.

  Wolf continued in a voice that sounded disinterested even to his own ears, this time speaking directly to Myr. “My advice is for you to stay here for now. It is probably quite safe for you to go out for a while yet. The ae’Magi won’t expect you to be this close to the original camp. If I am not back in a fortnight, it would be best for you to move on.” Wolf started to leave but turned back. He might not care for them, but Aralorn would want them safe.

  “I would find a way to block off the paths that I didn’t map for you so that no one is hurt or lost. You could follow these caves for a hundred miles if you wanted to.” He left then, as quietly as he had come in.

  * * *

  He knew all the ae’Magi’s holdings, even those acquired after he’d left. He had made a point of exploring each of them, partially to see if he could do it without getting caught, but also because he might find that he needed the knowledge. Even as he had done so, he’d been amused that Aralorn’s passion for information had passed on to him. Now he was grateful for the habit.

  First, he went, traveling by magic, as soon as he was far enough south that his spells worked, to the ae’Magi’s castle since it was the ae’Magi’s preferred residence as well as the closest one to the camp. He took the time to see if the ae’Magi was in residence, not that it would have kept Wolf out if he had been. He searched the dungeon twice, certain that she would be there—but he didn’t see her among the pitiful captives. He looked through the castle, even the stables, but saw no sign of her anywhere. Then he continued to the next hold.

  * * *

  He searched through the night and all the next day, even the royal palace of Reth and the small cottage in which the ae’Magi had been born. Finally, he had to admit defeat. He hoped that she had been able to kill herself because he found no trace of her anywhere with which the ae’Magi was remotely connected. For lack of anything better to do, he returned to the caves.

  * * *

  Aralorn traveled out of the Northlands flopped over the back of the Uriah who had captured her (she would not think of it as Talor). The smell of the thing at such close range was debilitating, and she was glad enough for the cold that stuffed up her nose. She had been stripped of her weapons with ruthless efficiency and bound hand and foot. The constant jostling of the thing’s shoulder in her midriff was giving her a headache that made it difficult to think clearly.

  They stopped when they were out of the mountains and dumped her ignominiously facedown on the ground. By turning her head to the side, she could see them moving about restlessly, snarling irritably at each other. For the most part they ignored her, but she received enough hungry looks that she tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She tried shapechanging once when nothing was paying attention to her, but the pain in her head kept distracting her.

  She was concentrating for another attempt, but this time the distraction came in the form of a thud originating just out of her field of view. One by one the Uriah dropped to the ground; only the glitter of their eyes gave indication that they were not asleep—or dead.

  “Sst. Filthy things. Why he uses them I cannot imagine.” The voice was a light tenor, speaking Rethian with a high-court accent. Her position on the ground limited her field of view, but she could see the elegant shoes topped by the embroidered stockings of a true dandy.

  “So,” the soft voice continued, “you are the prisoner the ae’Magi is so anxious to get.”

  She was pushed over on her side by a magical shove and got her first full look at the mage. His face was handsome enough although overpowered by the purple wig he affected. She didn’t know him by sight, but his ability to immobilize an army of Uriah and his dress let her put a name to him: Lord Kisrah, a minor noble whose abilities had been invaluable to Myr’s grandfather in the last war.

  Her father told her once that he was a competent tactician and diplomat, high praises from a man who despised the courtier type.

  “Not very much of you, is there? From all the fuss the ae’Magi is putting up over you, I had expected more—although you would clean up well enough, I suppose. It is too bad that you chose to attack the ae’Magi in such treasonous fashion.” He shook his head sadly at her, and she noticed with shock that his eyes were kind. “Get set now. I’m going to transport you to the ae’Magi’s castle. I don’t like transporting humans, it’s too hard on them. But the ae’Magi is concerned about Myr. It’s not right to take advantage of a man whose mind is turned by grief, and we need to get to him as soon as possible.”

  He rubbed his hands together a minute in preparation. “The ae’Magi is much better at this than I am; but he is busy with other matters, so I will have to do.”

  His magic hit her body with enough force that she almost passed out. She hit a hard stone floor sweating and coughing. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to die of lung fever before the Archmage could get his hands on her. She laughed at the thought, bringing on another fit of coughing.

  Ungentle hands grabbed her upper arms with bruising strength, but the man grunted as he picked her up—she was a lot heavier than she looked. Muscle would do that.

  It had been daylight outside, so the gloominess of the torchlit stone walls and her hair, which had come undone from its customary braid and hung over her face, rendered her effectively blind.

  She was stripped with ruthless efficiency. To take her mind off what that meant, she tried to recapture a stray thought she’d had just before Lord Kisrah had sent her over. She had a vague notion that it might be important. Her aching head didn’t want to cooperate.

  “Look here, Garogue, she ain’t as small as she looks!” Rough laughter and comments she would have felt better not hearing as a second guard neared.

  Think, Aralorn. I was relieved that . . . that I had not met Lord Kisrah before. Her face felt hot and tight, in spite of the coolness of the stone under her feet. Lord Kisrah would not recognize me as the Lyon’s daughter. She waited a minute before the significance of that thought hit her. I have, however, met the ae’Magi as the Lyon’s dau
ghter. He was intrigued with the color of my eyes—my shapeshifter blood.

  Gods, she thought bleakly. If he realizes who I am, he can use my father against me.

  While the guards were preoccupied, she tried again to change. Not a drastic change this time, just an adjustment to her face and eyes. Her features sharpened until they were as common to Rethian peasant stock as her medium brown eyes. The eyes were always the hardest part, for some reason, and she didn’t usually bother. But she didn’t want the ae’Magi to think that she had even the slightest touch of green magic. It might be important in her escape. With a bit more effort, her skin darkened to add authenticity.

  “Too bad we can’t do nothin’ with her but look.” A callused hand ran over her hip.

  “Yup, don’ you ever think of nothing else. Just you remember what happened to Len. He thought the ae’Magi wouldn’t ever know. Besides, we usually get a turn at ’em.”

  Goody. Something to look forward to.

  She was dragged forward again, her exhaustion making her more of a deadweight than before. Her head contacted the stone wall when she was swung over a broad shoulder.

  “They sure grow these Northerners heavy!” More laughter, but by then Aralorn was beyond caring.

  * * *

  It was late at night when Wolf returned to the camp. He expected everyone to be asleep. Instead, he came upon Myr seated on a rock in front of the caves and polishing Aralorn’s sword by the light of the moon.

  “Where did you find it?” Wolf asked.

  Startled, Myr leapt to his feet, holding the sword at ready. Seeing Wolf, Myr resumed his former position on the rock.

  “Oh, it’s you, Wolf. No luck? Damn.” Myr held the blade up to the light. “I found it in a small cave off the entranceway this evening. Someone had made an attempt to clean it but didn’t do a very good job. I suppose that one of the children found it and left it there when he realized what it was. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d clean it—no sense letting a good sword rust.”

  “No,” agreed Wolf, lying down facing Myr with his muzzle on his paws.

  Myr wasn’t his friend. But Aralorn had liked him.

  After a while, Myr asked, ”Where did you look?”

  So Wolf told him. It took some time. Myr listened, running the soft cloth over the odd-colored blade. When Wolf was done, Myr thought for a minute.

  “How did you look for her? I mean did you just look? Couldn’t a shapeshifter change her shape and escape?”

  Wolf shook his head. “Once she was imprisoned, she wouldn’t be able to change. Too much iron in the bars.” And she’d have been chained.

  “Iron does suppress magic?” Myr said, only half asking.

  “Shapeshifter’s magic.”

  The night was still except for the noise the soft cloth made on the sword. Then Myr said, “I’d met her once before, did you know that? It took me a while before I could pin down just where, because I was only a child. A more pompous, self-centered, proper little brat than I was you’d be hard-pressed to find. She was younger then, too, but she had the same mannerisms. Equal with anybody and observing protocol only because it suited her. I was offended, but my grandfather laughed and kissed her hands and said something about counting on her to liven up a dull reception.”

  There was a brief pause before he continued with his story. “You have to understand that I’ve been raised reading people’s faces all my life. I saw that she really respected the tough old man, and the lack of sincerity in her manners was—dislike for the untruths that protocol demanded. It was a lesson that I took to heart.” Myr paused, examining the gleaming blade.

  With a sigh, he set it aside. “What I’m getting to is this: The ae’Magi was at court a lot in those days. My grandfather thought the world of him. If I met Aralorn at court, wouldn’t he have? She’s not . . . pretty, but she is memorable. And if she wasn’t, her father certainly is. If I were going to break someone, the easiest way would be to go after her family. You might check out Lambshold and see if all of the Lyon’s family are accounted for.”

  Wolf caught his breath sharply. “She would be much more conscious of that than you. With that in mind, she would do her best to make herself unrecognizable. How long is it since she was taken?” He’d lost track of time.

  “Four days.”

  Finally, the wolf spoke again. “She’s in one of the dungeons obviously—or she’s escaped, though that is extremely unlikely.” She’d escaped once, but the ae’Magi hadn’t been expecting it. “I think she may be in the first place I looked—in the Archmage’s castle. When I searched the last few castles I was thorough, and I think that she would have had to hide herself really well—better than she probably could by then. She doesn’t have much time, the dungeon masters in the ae’Magi’s keeps are not renowned for their gentle treatment of the prisoners—to say nothing of the ae’Magi himself. She should be safe from him, though; he’s got other concerns that are more important.” Wolf hadn’t been subtle the last two places he’d been, and the ae’Magi would know he’d been inside. Three dead men would have told him that someone had been there, and the method of their deaths would have told the Archmage who.

  Wolf paused to think before he continued. “If she’s not there, I’ll come back here to check in with you. If she escapes, this is the only sanctuary that she has to come to.” On those words, the wolf melted into the forest shadows, leaving the young king sitting alone on his rock.

  * * *

  “Myr has a mage with him. What does he look like?”

  The ae’Magi’s voice was really extraordinary, thought Aralorn. Soft and warm, it offered sanctuary—but she knew those tones, and terror cat-footed toward her.

  But not even that fear combined with the cuts he was making on her arm was enough to hold her attention for long. The pain from the recoil of centuries of magic woven tightly into the stones of the dungeons made what he was doing to her body seem secondary.

  She wondered if she ought to tell him that if he used iron manacles in the torture chamber as well as in the cell, she would be much more aware of what he was doing. The iron effectively blocked her meager talents from picking up on the twisted magic that a thousand years of magicians had left in the stone of the dungeon.

  A bucket of cold water brought her attention back to her body. It felt good against her hot skin at first, but then the chill made her shake helplessly. In a rational moment, she smiled; the lung fever would take her soon—in a few days—if she could just hide it from him so that he wouldn’t turn her into one of the dead things that hung restlessly in her cell. She’d been grateful when she didn’t have to look at them anymore—if only she could do something about hearing them.

  He wasn’t using magic on her as he had the first time she’d visited his castle. Maybe the dungeon inhibited his magic as well—or maybe he was using all his magic for something else.

  * * *

  Baffled, the ae’Magi looked at the pathetic figure hanging in front of him. He had seen her smile while he was cutting her, and it bothered him. She wasn’t one of those who enjoyed pain, but she didn’t seem to even feel it. Torture wasn’t working on her.

  She seemed confused sometimes, though. Perhaps stealth could get him what pain could not.

  “Sweetheart, sweetheart, listen to me,” said the ae’Magi in Myr’s voice, his tones gentle, like a young man courting a mate.

  Aralorn jerked in reflex at the voice.

  “Sweetheart, I know that you hurt. I’ve come to get you out of here, but you need to tell me where Cain is. We need him to get you out.”

  She frowned, and said in a puzzled voice, “Cain?”

  “Yes,” asked Myr again, and she heard a touch of anger in the voice now, “where is Cain? Where is Myr’s mage?”

  * * *

  Myr wouldn’t be angry with her—even though it sounded like Myr, it wasn’t him. The certainty came from somewhere. She should know who Cain was, though, and it bothered her that she didn’t. That didn’
t mean that she wanted the person who stole Myr’s voice to know that.

  “Dead,” she said then, with utter certainty in her voice. Somewhere a part of her applauded the edge of melancholy she gave to her voice. “He is dead and gone.”

  * * *

  That hadn’t occurred to him; it simply hadn’t occurred to him. The ae’Magi paced the length of the chamber. It wasn’t possible. Angrily, he stripped off the gloves he’d fastidiously donned to separate him from her filthy flesh.

  It would ruin everything if his son was dead. All his efforts would be for nothing. He raised the knife to her throat, then thought better of it. She still had information for him; he wouldn’t kill her for spite.

  Turning on his heel, the ae’Magi stalked out of the chamber. As he passed through the guardroom, he left orders to have her moved back into her cell and, as an afterthought, told the dungeon master that if he could find out where the rebels were hiding, he would give him a silver piece.

  * * *

  The dungeons were among the parts of the ae’Magi’s castle that were very old—the result of those years was not lovely. The smell made Wolf choke as he snuck into them from the hidden entrance. Magic had taken him to the castle, but he’d been forced to use mundane methods to enter. The ae’Magi was in residence, which gave him hope that Aralorn would be, too—but it meant he had to be very careful about the magic he used.

  No one saw him as he emerged into the walkway between the cells. The night guards were in the room that was the only passageway from the main dungeon, other than the hidden ones, of course. There was no need for their presence in the actual dungeon at this time of night, unless they were escorting a captive in or out—or someone was being tortured.

  He stood on a wide stone walkway, in human shape. On one side were seven cells, sunken the depth of a grave, in the old style. On the other side was the torture chamber, also so sunken. It was unoccupied at the moment. The only hint of life came from the smoldering coals in the raised hearth in the center of the cell.