Masques s-1 Page 26

  His father had taught him how to be that way. When Wolf had understood that he was becoming the monster his father wanted, it had driven him to escape. It was easier when he had cared for nothing, easier when he’d been his father’s pet mage. Much easier.

  The desire that he felt to return to what he had left behind terrified him. No one who hadn’t been raised there would understand the addiction of his father’s corruption. Aralorn was right. He needed her to keep him from returning to his old ways, becoming his father’s tool once more. The knowledge that she was watching might be enough to strengthen him.

  “Stay,” was all that he said.

  * * *

  Once he’d made his decision, he ignored her. Kneeling, he emptied the contents of the backpack, a motley collection of jars, which he organized in an overtly random fashion. He stripped himself of his clothes and began a ritual of purification, using the water from a nearby stream.

  Aralorn watched for a while, but when he started to meditate, she went for a scurry—mice seldom walk. Once out of sight, where she wouldn’t pull his concentration back to her, she shifted into her own form.

  She stopped when she had a good view of the castle. It was funny how she always pictured it as black on the outside, the way it had appeared both times she left it. In the sunlight it sparkled a pearly gray, almost white. She could almost visualize the noble knight riding out to face the evil dragon. She hoped in this story the dragon (accompanied by his faithful mouse) would defeat the knight.

  She clenched her fingers in the bark of the tree she stood next to and turned her cheek against the rough texture, closing her eyes against the very real possibility that this story would turn out like all the rest—the knight living happily ever after and the dragon slain.

  When the shadows lengthened into dusk, Aralorn—once again the mouse—snuck back to where Wolf sat with closed eyes, the last light resting on his clean-shaven unblemished face with loving affection. The sight of his scarless face momentarily distracted her from his nudity.

  Aralorn fought the chill that crept over her, knowing that if he looked just then, his all-too-discerning eyes would see her anxiety. It was unsettling to be in love with someone who looked like the face in her nightmares.

  Ah well, as her stepmother would have said, at least he was handsome. And his face wasn’t the only beautiful thing about him.

  She leapt blithely onto his leg and ascended quickly to his bare shoulder, feeling a slight malicious pleasure when he jerked in surprise. When he turned to glare at her, she kissed him on the nose, then began to clean her forepaws with industry. With a sound that might have been a laugh, he ran a finger lightly up her back, rubbing her fur the wrong way. She bit him—but not too hard.

  He smoothed her hair and set her down on the ground so that he could regain his clothing. She noticed that it wasn’t the same outfit he’d taken off. It wasn’t like anything that she’d ever seen him wear. The main color was still black, but it was finely embroidered with silver thread. The shirt was gathered and puffed, hanging down well over his thighs, which was just as well, because the pants were indecently tight, from mouse height anyway. She could see the faint flickering of magic in the fabric and assumed that the clothes he wore were the magician equivalent of armor.

  When he was dressed, he put her back on his shoulder and strode out of the clearing like a man who was at last within reach of attaining a much-coveted goal. He talked to her while he walked.

  “I thought of confronting him in the castle itself, but it has been the center of so much magic that I really don’t know how this spell would affect it. I suspect that at least some of the construction of the older parts of the building was done purely by magic. Without magic, it could collapse on top of us. I don’t know about you, but I thought it might be interesting to survive long enough to find out just what the ae’Magi’s loyal followers will do to his murderers. That is, if we manage to make it that far.”

  “I’d forgotten that aspect of it,” answered Aralorn in the squeaky-soft voice that was the best her mouse form could manage. “Will his spells still be in effect when he dies?”

  “Probably not, but people will still remember how they felt. We will remain the villains of this story.” Wolf leapt easily over a small brook.

  “Oh good!” she exclaimed, holding on tightly with her forepaws. “I’ve always wanted to be a villain.”

  “I am happy to please my lady mouse.”

  “Uh, Wolf?” she asked.

  “Umm?”

  “If we’re not going to the castle, where are we going?”

  “Well,” he said, sliding down a steep section of his self-determined path, “when I lived in the castle, he had a habit of going out to meditate every night. He didn’t like to do it in the castle because he said that there were too many conflicting auras—too many people steeped in magic had lived and died there in the past thousand years or so. There is a spot just south of the moat that he used to like to use. If he doesn’t do it tonight, he probably will tomorrow.”

  Aralorn sat quietly, thinking of all the things she’d never asked him, might never get a chance to ask. “Wolf?”

  “Yes?”

  “Has your voice always been the way it is?”

  “No.” She thought that was all of the answer that she was going to get until he added, “When I woke up after melting the better part of the tower”—he pointed to one of the graceful spires that arched into the evening sky—“I found that I’d screamed so loud that I damaged my voice. It is very useful when I want to intimidate someone.”

  “Wolf,” said Aralorn, setting a paw on his ear since they were on relatively smooth ground, “not to belabor the obvious, but your voice isn’t what intimidates people. It could be the possibility that you might immolate anyone who bothers you.”

  “Do you think that might be it?” he inquired with mock interest. “I had wondered. It has been a while since I immolated anyone, after all.”

  She laughed and looked at the castle as it rose black against the lighter color of the sky. She had the funny feeling that it was watching them. She knew that it wasn’t so, but she was grateful that she was a mouse all the same, and even more grateful that she was a mouse on Wolf’s shoulders. She leaned lightly against his neck.

  She knew that they were near the place Wolf had spoken of from the tension in the muscles she balanced on. A stray wind brought the smell of the moat to cut through the smell of green things growing. It almost disguised another scent that touched her nose.

  “Wolf!” Aralorn said in an urgent whisper. “Uriah. Can you smell them?”

  * * *

  He stopped completely, his dark clothes helping him to blend in. His ritual cleansing had left no human scent to betray him, only the sharp/sweet scents of herbs. Even a Uriah couldn’t track in the dark, so unless they had already been seen, they were safe for a moment. Wolf scanned with other senses to find where the Uriah were. It wasn’t hard. He was surprised that they hadn’t run into one before. His father, it seemed, had been busy. There were a lot of the things around, waiting.

  Once, he had watched a spider at her web. Fascinated he had tried to see what she thought about, waiting for her prey to become entangled in the airy threads. He got the same feeling from the Uriah. He wondered if he were the victim of this web.

  He thought about turning back. If the ae’Magi was aware that he was here, it might be better to return another time. After a brief hesitation, he shrugged and continued on with more caution. The ae’Magi knew his son well enough to know that he would be coming sometime; a surprise appearance would make no difference either way.

  * * *

  Aralorn buried her face in the pathetic shield of Wolf’s shirt, trying to block out the smell. For some reason, the smell of the Uriah was worse than the sounds that they had made outside the cave. Hearing Talor’s voice, seeing his eyes on that grotesque mockery of a human body, had made her want to retch and cry at the same time. It still did.
>
  By the time she’d gained control, Wolf stopped for a second time and set her on the ground, motioning her to hide herself. He hesitated, then shifted into his familiar lupine form before gliding into the clearing.

  The ae’Magi sat motionless on the ground, his legs and arms positioned in the classic meditation form. A small fire danced just between Wolf and the magician. The newly risen moon caught the clear features of the Archmage ruthlessly, revealing the remarkable beauty therein. Character was etched in the slight laugh lines around his eyes and the aquiline nose. His eyes opened, their color appearing black in the darkness, but no less extraordinary than in full light. His lips curved a welcoming smile. The warm tones vocalized the sentiment in the expression on the ae’Magi’s face.

  “My son,” he said, “you have come home.”

  ELEVEN

  If Wolf wanted to believe that smile, Aralorn could see no sign of it from where she sat hiding under the large leaves of a plant that happened to be growing near the ae’Magi. She hadn’t, of course, stayed where Wolf had left her. She wouldn’t have been able to see anything.

  Wolf lay down and began cleaning the toes of his front feet with a long pink tongue.

  The ae’Magi’s face froze at the implied insult, then relaxed into a rueful expression. “It was always so with you. Say walk, and you run, stop, and you go. I shouldn’t have expected a joyous reunion, but I had hoped. It warms my heart to see you again.”

  The wolf who was his son looked up, and said, not quite correctly, “We have no audience here. Do you take me for a fool? Should I return as the long-lost son to his loving father? Let me know when you are through making speeches, so that we may talk.”

  Aralorn marveled at the perfect response the magician made. A hint of tragedy crossed his face, only to be supplanted by a look of stoic cheerfulness. “Let us talk, then, my son. Tell my why you are come if it be not out of love for your father.”

  Something was wrong, but she couldn’t figure out just what it was. Something the ae’Magi said? Something he’d done?

  “I pray you be seated.” He indicated a spot not too near him with his left hand.

  It was a power play, Aralorn saw. By politely offering Wolf a seat, the ae’Magi made him look like an unruly child if he didn’t take it. If he did take it, it would give the ae’Magi the upper hand to have Wolf obey his first request. He’d reckoned without Wolf, who looked not at all uncomfortable and made no move to come closer to the ae’Magi.

  The entire effect was lost without an audience of some sort, Aralorn thought. Was there someone other than the Uriah watching them?

  “I do not play your games,” Wolf said impatiently. “I have come to stop you. Everywhere that I go, I see one of your filthy pets. You are annoying me, and I will not put up with it.” Wolf put no force behind his words; the grave-gravel tone carried threat enough.

  The ae’Magi stood and stepped slightly to his left, so the fire no longer was a barrier between him and the wolf. “I am sorry if I have caused you bother. Had I known that the shapeshifter woman was yours, I would never have taken her. She didn’t tell me about you until we were done, and there was nothing I could do about it. Did she tell you that she cried when I . . .” He let his voice drift off.

  Wolf rose to his feet with a growl of rage and stalked toward the figure. Abruptly, Aralorn realized what it was that bothered her about the ae’Magi. He cast no shadow from the light of the fire. She noticed something else: Wolf’s path would take him directly across the place that the ae’Magi would have had him sit at.

  “Wolf, stop!” she yelled as loud as she could in mouse form, hoping that he’d heed her. “He has no shadow. It’s an illusion.”

  * * *

  Wolf stopped, muting the feral tones in his throat. Her voice broke into his unexpected rage. He did then what he should have done first. Sniffing the air, he smelled only the taint of moat and Uriah, no fire—no human.

  Ignoring the pseudo-ae’Magi, Aralorn the mouse scampered to the space toward which Wolf had been baited. “There’s a circle drawn in rosemary and tharmud root here.”

  “A containment spell of some sort,” commented Wolf. She was exploring a little more closely than he was comfortable with. She needed to be more careful of herself. “It’s probably best if we don’t trigger it.” His voice was calm, but his body was still stiff. He sketched a sign in the air, and the image of the ae’Magi froze.

  “Is he directing the illusion, do you think?” asked Aralorn, bouncing away from the circle toward Wolf.

  “I doubt it. He would not have to. The illusion spell can be given directives, and the trap requires no magic to initialize once it is set.” He regained his human form and picked up Aralorn, setting her on his shoulder, where he’d gotten used to having her. “If I had triggered the containment spell, it would probably have alerted him then.”

  “Like a spider’s web,” said Aralorn.

  “Just so,” agreed Wolf.

  * * *

  He stared at the illusion of his father and made no effort to move away. It wasn’t a spell; she’d have felt it if something was actually affecting Wolf. Maybe it was something more powerful than magic.

  “Where to now?” Aralorn asked. “Do we wait for the Uriah to attack, or do we look for the ae’Magi?”

  “For someone who should be scared and cowering, you sound awfully eager.” Wolf stood staring at the silhouette of the ae’Magi: His voice wasn’t as emotionless as usual.

  “Hey,” replied Aralorn briskly, “it’s better than spending the winter cooped up in the caves.”

  Wolf made no answer except to run an absentminded hand over the smooth skin of his cheek as if he were looking for something that wasn’t there.

  Aralorn waited as patiently as she could, then said, “He knew that you were coming.”

  Wolf nodded. “He’s been expecting me for a long time. I knew that. I should have been more alert for something like this.” He bowed his head. “I should have asked before. What he said, I have to know. Aralorn, when he had you here, did he . . .” His voice tightened with rage and stopped.

  “No,” she said instantly. “I’d tell you that before a time like this anyway, so you wouldn’t get upset when you need your wits about you. But look here, the first time I was in his castle, he was working on a spell and wanted to save his energy. I was disappointed, but then a slave must wait on the master’s convenience.”

  He was listening. She was taking the right tack, then. “The second time, he was too interested in finding you to worry about it. You shouldn’t let him pull your strings so easily.” She curled her tail against his neck in a quick caress. “I would have lied under these circumstances, you have to know that. But I wouldn’t have hidden something like that when you got me out of there—I don’t think I could have.” And that was as honest as she was comfortable with—but it did the trick.

  The tension eased out of him. “You are right, Lady. Shall we go a-hunting sorcerers in the castle? Perhaps you would prefer a Uriah or two to begin with, or one of my father’s other pets. I believe that there are a few that you haven’t seen before. Would Milady prefer to be outnumbered a hundred to two or just by three or four to two? This task can accommodate your tastes.”

  “Then of course,” said Aralorn, “once you have attained your goal, we can arrange to have the castle fall on us conveniently. That way we’ll escape mutilation from the outraged populace that you have saved from slavery and worse. Sounds interesting—let’s get to it.” She thought that Wolf might have been smiling as he headed downhill and away from the castle, but it was hard to tell from her vantage point.

  * * *

  The woods grew increasingly dense as Wolf walked farther from the castle. A hoot from an owl just overhead made Aralorn-the-mouse cringe tighter against his neck. “Lots of nasties in these woods,” she said in a mouselike voice devoid of all but a hint of humor.

  “And I,” announced Wolf in a grim voice that was designed to let Aral
orn know that it was time to be serious, “am the nastiest of all.”

  “Are you really?” asked Aralorn in an interested sort of tone. “Oh, I just adore nasties.”

  Wolf stopped and looked at the mouse sitting innocently on his shoulder. Most people cowered under that look. Aralorn began, industriously, to clean her whiskers. When Wolf started to walk again, though, she said in a stage whisper, “I really do, you know.”

  They emerged from a particularly thick growth of brush into a narrow aisle of grass. In the center of it sat a suggestively shaped altar dedicated to one of the old gods. It was heavily overgrown with moss and lichen until it was almost impossible to tell the original color of the stone. There was nothing unusual about finding the altar, as such remnants dotted the landscape from well before the Wizard Wars. However, the altar itself was flanked by a pair of unusually shaped monoliths.

  “Oh dear,” said Aralorn drolly, crawling halfway down his arm to get a good look. “Look. Two of them. I suppose that it must have belonged to one of the fertility gods, hmm?”

  The southern monolith was broken about halfway up, but the northernmost stood as tall as a man and almost as big around. When Wolf touched it, it slid sideways with a creak and a groan. He slipped inside the dark hole that was revealed and started down the ladder. Aralorn darted off his arm altogether and checked out the ladder.

  “The ladder is a lot newer than the altar,” she commented, flashing back to her post and tucking a paw inside his collar.

  “I put it up myself when I saw that there was some kind of exit from the secret tunnels up here. There was no sign of another one, so I suppose it must have rotted completely away. Plague it, Aralorn, you’re going to fall and kill yourself if you don’t stay put!”