Masques (25 page)

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 daughter. 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.”

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.