Sianim 01 - Masques

full-blown story. He led her through several other moldering doorways before they came to one of the stairways that led up to the castle itself. He chose that one to keep their path simple—it would take them to a small closet in the dressing room of the master’s suite.

    Aralorn didn’t need Wolf to put his finger to his lips as he opened the secret door that dumped them in a small closet that led to a sumptuously appointed room where hand-carved combs and mirrors sat next to brushes and jewelry of every masculine type. She recognized a piece that the ae’Magi wore and realized that they were in his personal rooms.
    The suite consisted of interconnected rooms, all hung with tapestries of great age and richness, preserved through magic that made her fingertips throb when she brushed by them. The rooms were empty except for a girl who was crouched sobbing in a corner.
    Her nakedness made her look even younger than she was. The white skin of her back was mottled with bruises and lash marks. An arcane symbol whose meaning eluded Aralorn, was etched into one shoulder in bright red.
    Wolf grabbed both of Aralorn’s arms when she would have reached out to touch the girl. He pushed Aralorn behind him with more speed than gentleness and gripped his staff in one hand. Noiselessly, he drew his sword in the other.
    “Child.” The word was gentle, his tone sad—for him; but he gripped the sword and held it in readiness. It was fortunate that he did so.
    With a chilling cry and uncanny speed, the girl turned and leapt. Once her face had been uncommonly pretty, thought Aralorn, with a small tattoo next to her eye that marked her as belonging to one of the silk-merchant clans. Now the skin was drawn too tightly against the fine bones. Her china-blue eyes were surrounded by pools of bloodred. Her full lips were stretched over pearly teeth, the kind that all of the heroines in the old stories had—with a slight difference. The lower set of teeth were as long as the first two knuckles of Aralorn’s ring finger. Her mouth gaped impossibly wide as she launched herself at Wolf.
    He knocked her aside easily enough, for her weight was slight, and in the process he cut her deeply in the abdomen. He ended her suffering with a second cut to the back of her neck.
    Death was no stranger to Aralorn, so examining the body didn’t bother her—much. “One of your father’s pets, I assume.” It was a comment more than a question.
    Wolf grunted an affirmative and touched the symbol on her back. “She’d have been a lot harder to fight if she hadn’t been so new at it. She didn’t even know how to attack.”
    Aralorn jerked the embroidered bedspread off the bed and covered the pathetic little body with it before following Wolf out of the room.
    The study was a wonder in cultured taste, not that Aralorn expected anything else. Wolf walked to the desk and picked up a sheet of paper. He laughed humorlessly and handed it to Aralorn. It read simply, “I’m in the dungeon. Join me?”
    “Apparently,” said Wolf, “he was monitoring his little trap. He probably knows that you are with me. It is time for you to leave. Now.”
    She looked at him with due consideration. “I probably should tell you that I will, then just follow you in.”
    “You would, wouldn’t you?” Wolf’s voice was soft. He glanced at a decanter on the ae’Magi’s polished desk. It imploded loudly enough to make Aralorn jump. “Plague take you, Aralorn, don’t you see? He will use you against me. He already has.”
    Aralorn felt her own temper rise to the surface. “Do you think that I am some weak helpless female who can do nothing but stand around while you protect her? I am not helpless against human magic or anything else he’s likely to throw at us.” She made “human” sound like a filthy word. “I can help. Let me help, Wolf.”
    He was silent for a long moment, then he waved his hand with a haphazard motion and the decanter re-created itself, leaving the desk unblemished. He walked over and pulled the stopper. Taking a token drink from the neck of the bottle, he met Aralorn’s glare.
    “I owe you an apology, Lady. I’m not used to caring about anything. It’s . . . uncomfortable.”
    She tilted her chin up at him, flags of temper still on her cheeks, then she took the decanter that he was still holding and took a mouthful herself. She set it on the desk and muttered something that he wasn’t supposed to hear.
    “What?” he whispered.