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  The soft sounds of a familiar voice lent her comfort and strength, but there was something wrong with the voice. It was too soft, it should be cold and rough, harsher. She associated unpleasant things with the warmer tones. The voice she wanted to hear should be dead like the Uriah, like Talor. She could hear someone whimpering and wondered who it was.

  She ate and it tasted very good, salty and warm on her sore throat. She drank something else and a part of her tasted the bitter herb with approval, knowing that it would help her breathe. Wasn’t there some reason that she didn’t want to get better?—but she couldn’t decide why she wouldn’t want to get well, and while she thought about it, she drifted back to sleep.

  * * *

  Wolf watched her and waited. Without the unquenchable energy that characterized her, she looked fragile, breakable. Awake, she had a tendency to make him forget how small she was.

  He gritted his teeth and controlled his rage when she cried out in terror. Although she babbled out loud, she said nothing that would have been any use to the ae’Magi were he listening.

  She was quiet finally, and Wolf sat propped up against a tree, near enough to keep an eye on her but far enough away that he wouldn’t disturb her slumbers.

  He should never have been able to heal her. Indisputably, he had. Even if he did nothing more than eliminate the paths the needles had cut into her eyes, it was more than human magic allowed for. Less dramatic but even further outside the bounds of magic, as he understood it, was the fact that she now wore the appearance that was hers by birth.

  He’d always had the ability to do things beyond the generally accepted bounds of human magic—taking wolf shape for extended periods of time was one of those. Always before he could have attributed this to the enormous power he wielded. Human magic could heal, but it required a more detailed knowledge of the human body than he had acquired—killing required much less precision. Human magic could not recognize a shapeshifter’s natural shape and restore her to it . . . as he had done.

  His magic had blithely crashed through the laws of magic established for thousands of years. What was he that he could do such things?

  He found no answers. He’d seen the woman who bore him only once that he could remember. She’d seemed ordinary enough—for a woman who had spent a decade in the ae’Magi’s dungeon. But the ae’Magi had got a son on her and kept her alive afterward. She must have been more than she seemed.

  Wolf had been the result of an . . . experiment perhaps: one that had gotten out of hand.

  Aralorn stirred, catching his attention. He got to his feet with relief at being drawn from his thoughts, and went to her.

  EIGHT

  Aralorn was in the habit of waiting until she knew where she was and who she was supposed to be before she opened her eyes—a habit developed from frequently being someone other than herself. For some reason, it seemed more difficult than usual. The warm sun on her face seemed as much out of place as the sound of a jay squeaking from its perch somewhere above her.

  She moved restlessly and felt a warning twinge from her side that was instantly echoed from various other parts of her body. As a memory aid, she found it effective—if crude.

  The problem was, she had no idea how she had gotten from the ae’Magi’s dungeon to where she was.

  Deciding that it was unlikely that she would come to any earth-shattering conclusions lying around feigning sleep, she opened her eyes and sat up—an action that she had immediate cause to regret. The abrupt change in position caused her to start coughing—no pleasant thing with cracked ribs. She collapsed slowly back into her prone position and waited for her eyes to quit watering.

  Breathing shallowly, she restricted herself to turning her head to examine her current environment. She was alone in a small clearing, surrounded by thick shrubs that quickly gave way to broad-leafed trees. She could hear a brook running somewhere nearby. The sun was high and edging toward afternoon. Mountains rose, not far away, on at least three sides. They were smaller than their Northland counterparts, but impressive enough. Also unfamiliar, at least from her angle.

  The blankets in which Aralorn was more or less cocooned were of a fine intricate weave and finer wool. She whistled softly at the extravagance. Just one of them would cost a mercenary two months’ salary, and she was wrapped in two of them, with her head pillowed on a third. She should have been too warm, bundled up so heavily—but it felt good.

  The bandaging on her hands and wrists was neatly tied and just snug enough to give support without being too tight. Whoever had tied it was better at binding wounds than she was—not a great feat. She didn’t bother to examine the other bandages that covered her here and there, preferring not to scrutinize her wounds in case too many body parts were missing or nonfunctional.

  It occurred to her then that her eyes should belong to the category of missing and nonfunctional items. The method the ae’Magi had used to blind her had been . . . thorough. Enough so that she had not thought that even shapeshifter magic could heal her.

  She shivered in her blankets. She had the unwelcome thought that it might be possible for a strong magician to create the illusion of this meadow. She didn’t know for sure, but from her stories . . . Much more likely than someone breaking her out of the ae’Magi’s dungeons. Much easier, she was certain, than it would be to heal her eyes.

  She looked around, but she was still the only occupant of the clearing.

  Deciding that if it were the ae’Magi who was going to show up, she didn’t want to face him lying on her back, she found a slender tree growing near her head. She pushed herself back until she bumped into it—the effort it took was not reassuring. Gradually, so as not to trigger another fit of coughing, she raised herself with the tree’s support until she was sitting up with her back against it. She waited for a minute. When she didn’t start coughing, she slid herself up the tree, the bark scraping her back despite the wrapping job someone had done—that felt real enough. Finally, she was standing—at least leaning.

  She didn’t hear him until he spoke from some distance behind her. His voice was without its usual sardonic overtones, but it was still blessedly Wolf’s. “Welcome back, Lady.”

  Sheer dumb relief almost sent her crashing to the ground. Wolf. It was Wolf. He, she was willing to believe, could rescue her and heal whatever needed healing. Safe.

  She swallowed and schooled her face—he wouldn’t enjoy having her jump on him and sob all over him any more than she’d have enjoyed the memory of it once she got her feet safely under her again.

  When she was sure she could pull off nonchalant, she turned her head with a smile of greeting that left her when she saw his face. Only years of training kept her from giving her fear voice, even that couldn’t stop the involuntary step backward that she took. Unfortunately, her feet tangled in one of the blankets, she lost the support of the tree, and fell.

  Definitely cracked ribs, but not even pain could penetrate her despair.

  The Archmage.

  Unwilling to let her enemy out of her sight, she rolled until she could see him, which set off a coughing fit. Eyes watering from pain, she saw that he, too, had stepped back, albeit more gracefully. He raised a hand to his face and then dropped it abruptly. He waited until she finished coughing and could talk—and there was no expression on his face at all.

  Aralorn found herself grateful that she was unable to speak for a minute because it gave her a chance to think. The ae’Magi’s face it might be, but Wolf’s yellow eyes glittered at her—as volatile as the face was not.

  It was Wolf, her Wolf. The still, almost flight of his body told her that more than his eyes. Illusion could reproduce anyone’s eyes, but she was unwilling to believe that anyone but her knew Wolf’s body language that well.

  Cain was the ae’Magi’s son, but no one had ever told her how much the son resembled the father. If the ae’Magi’s son had shown the world his magic-scarred face, the one she knew best, surely someone would have mentioned the scars
. Perhaps the ae’Magi didn’t want people to remember how much he looked like his demonized son. She could believe that if he didn’t want people to comment, they wouldn’t. Her next thought was that Wolf didn’t look like a man only a few years older than Myr—a few years younger than she was. Her third thought, as her coughing slowed down, was that she’d better figure out a way to handle this—she didn’t want to hurt him again.

  Before she could say anything, Wolf spoke. “If I thought that you could make it to safety alone, I would leave you in peace. Unfortunately, that is not possible. I assure you that I will leave as soon as you are back . . .”

  She ended his speech with a rude word and assumed as much dignity as she could muster while lying awkwardly on the ground amid a tangle of blankets. “Idiot!” she told him. “Of course I knew who you were.” She hadn’t been certain—he’d just made her short list, but she didn’t need to tell him that. “Just how many apprentices do you think the ae’Magi has had? I know the name of every one of them, thanks to Ren. He seemed to think that information might be valuable someday. How many mages do you think would have the power to do what you did to Edom?” Two or three, she thought, but one of those was Kisrah—who had not been on her list. “Just how stupid do you think I am?” She had to pause to keep from coughing again—but he didn’t attempt to answer her question with any of his usual sarcasm, and that worried her. So she turned her defense into an attack. “Why did you hide from me again? First the wolf shape, then the mask and the scars.” She let her voice quiver and didn’t give in to the temptation to make it just a little too much. “Do you distrust me so much?”

  “No,” said Wolf, and the hint of a smile played around his mouth—more importantly, he no longer looked like he’d rather be anywhere than there. “I forgot.” He waved a hand in the general direction of his face. “The scars are legitimate. I acquired them as I told you. It wasn’t until I left there . . .” Left his father, she thought. “I realized that I could get rid of them the same way that I could take wolf shape. But for a long time, it didn’t matter because I was the wolf. When I decided to act against him instead of continuing to run—all things considered, I preferred to keep the scars.”

  Aralorn certainly understood why that would be. “So why change now?”

  “When I got you out of the dungeon, it was necessary to appear to be the ae’Magi in order to get past the guards. I was . . . I forgot to resume the scars, the mask.” He sat beside her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Startle. Yes, that was one way to put it.

  With an expression that didn’t quite make it to being the smile she intended, Aralorn told him, “When I die of heart failure the next time you frighten me like that, you can put that on my gravestone—‘I didn’t mean to startle her.’”

  As she talked, she looked at him carefully. Seeing things that hadn’t been apparent at first. His face was without the laugh lines around the eyes and mouth that characterized the ae’Magi’s. There was no gray in the black hair, but the expression in his eyes made him look much older than his father had. Wolf eyes, Wolf’s eyes they were—with a hunter’s cold, amoral gaze.

  “So why didn’t I know that Cain was scarred?” she asked him.

  “My father kept them hidden.”

  “Does Myr know who you are?” She found that was important to her—which told her that she’d never given up Reth, being Rethian, the way she’d given up Sianim. Myr was her king, and she wouldn’t have him lied to.

  He nodded. “I told him before I offered my assistance. It was only fair that he knew what he was getting into. And with whom.”

  There was a slight pause, then Aralorn said, “The ae’Magi asked me about you, about Cain.” That much she could remember.

  “Did he?” Wolf raised an eyebrow, but he wasn’t as calm as he appeared. If he had been in his wolf shape, the hairs along his spine would have been raised: She recognized that soft tone of voice. “What did you say?”

  Aralorn raised her eyebrow in return. “I told him that you were dead.”

  “Did he believe you?” he asked.

  She shrugged and started to tug discreetly at the heap of blankets that intermingled with her feet. “At the time he did, but since you chose to rescue me, he’ll probably come to the conclusion that I lied to him.”

  “Let’s get you into a more comfortable position”—he indicated her troublesome hobble with a careless hand—“and back under the covers with you before you catch your death, shall we?” His voice was a wicked imitation of one of the healers at Sianim.

  Even as he untangled her and restored her makeshift bed to its previous order, she could feel an imp of a headache coming on. “Wolf,” she said softly, catching his hand and stilling it, “don’t use the scars. You are not the ae’Magi—you don’t have to prove it.”

  He tapped her on the nose and shook his head with mock despair. “Did anyone ever tell you that you are overbearing, Lady?” That “Lady” told her that things were all right between the two of them.

  That knowledge meant that the crisis was over, and she was suddenly exhausted. He resumed his efforts and tucked a pillow behind her head.

  “Where are we, and how long have we been here?” It was an effort to keep her eyes open any longer, and her voice slurred as she finished the sentence, ending in a racking cough. As she hacked and gasped for breath, he lifted her upright. She didn’t notice that it helped any, but the feel of his arms around her was pleasant.

  The hazy thought occurred to her that the greater part of the reason she’d left Reth to go to Sianim in the first place was to get away from the feeling of being protected. Now she was grateful for it. She didn’t think that he’d notice that the last few coughs were suppressed sounds of self-directed amusement.

  “We’re about a day’s brisk walk away from the Master Magician’s castle. We’ve been here for three days. As soon as you wake up, we’ll start on our way.”

  He said something more, she thought, but she couldn’t be bothered to stay awake for it.

  He bent down and whispered it again. This time she heard it. “Sleep. I have you safe.”

  * * *

  The next time Aralorn regained consciousness, she was ruthlessly fed and dressed in a tunic and trousers she recognized as her own before she had a chance to do any more than open her eyes. She was propped up with brisk efficiency beside a tree and told to “stay there.” Wolf then piled all of the blankets, clothes, and utensils together and sent them on their way with a brisk wave of his staff.

  “Where did you get my clothes?” Aralorn asked with idle curiosity from where she sat leaning against a tree. Her tree.

  “From Sianim, where you left them.” With efficient motions, he was cleaning the area they had occupied until only the remains of the fire would give any indication that someone had camped there.

  She’d known that. Had just needed him to admit it to her.

  She raised an eyebrow at him, crossed her arms over her chest, and said in a deceptively mild tone, “You mean the whole time that I was all but bursting out of the innkeeper’s son’s clothes, wearing blisters on my feet with his boots—you could have gotten mine for me?”

  He grunted without looking at her, but she could see a hint of a smile in his flawless profile. He was, she decided, without it soothing her ire in the least, more beautiful than his sire.

  “I asked you a question,” she said in a dangerously soft tone she’d learned from him.

  “I was waiting for the tunic seams to finally give way . . .” He paused to dodge the handful of grass she threw at him, then shrugged. “I am sorry, Lady. It just never occurred to me.”

  Aralorn tried to look stern, but the effort turned into a laugh.

  Wolf brushed the grass from his shoulders and went back to packing. Aralorn leaned back against her tree and watched him as he worked, trying to get used to the face he now wore.

  In an odd sort of way, he looked more like his father than his father did. The ae�
��Magi’s face was touched with innocence and compassion. Wolf’s visage had neither. His was the face of man who could do anything, and had.

  “Can you ride?” he asked, calling her back from her thoughts.

  Aralorn considered the state of her body. Everything functioned—sort of, anyway. Riding was certainly better than any alternative she could think of. She nodded. “If we don’t go any faster than a walk. I don’t think that I could sit a trot for very long.”

  He nodded and said three or four brisk words in a language she didn’t know. He didn’t bother with the theatrics in front of her. The air merely shimmered around him strangely. Not unpleasant—just difficult to look at, much nicer than when she changed shape. The black horse who had replaced Wolf snorted at her, then shook himself as if he were wet. His eyes were as black as his hide, and she found herself wishing he’d kept his own eyes no matter how odd it would have seemed for a horse to have yellow eyes.

  She stood up stiffly, trying not to stagger—or start coughing again. When she could, she walked shakily up to him, grateful to reach the support of his neck.

  Unfortunately, although Wolf-as-a-Horse wasn’t as massive as Sheen, he was as tall, and she couldn’t climb up. After her third attempt, he knelt in the dust so that she could slip onto his back.

  He took them down an old trail that had fallen into disuse. The only tracks on it were from the local wildlife. The woods around them were too dense to allow easy travel, but Wolf appeared to know them—when the trail disappeared into a lush meadow, he picked it up again on the other side without having to take a step to the left or right. Wolf’s gaits, she found, were much smoother than Sheen’s; but the motion still hurt her ribs.

  To distract herself when it started to get unbearable, she thought up a question almost at random. “Where did you find a healer?”

  A green magic-user would never be anywhere near the ae’Magi’s castle. Other than her, she supposed, but she was no healer—green magic or not.