Sianim 01 - Masques

its usual place under the couch, floating gently in the air behind her. She could almost see the person holding the sword—it was like looking at an image in rough water, impossible to discern any specific features.
    “You didn’t take it?” The Old Man’s voice was filled with disgust. “What is wrong with you? I told you. Told you . If it weren’t for the fact that Lys cares about that Wolf, I would let you stew in your own pot.”
    He stalked to the sword and took it from the apparition that held it. He unsheathed it and swung it once. “ This is the third of the Smith’s great weapons. Ambris.” He gave it another name, but Aralorn was too distracted to translate it. “If the ae’Magi gets his hands on her and realizes what he has, there will be no one who can stand against him. You were supposed to take her with you and use her. I take it that your silly little spell didn’t work?”
    He didn’t wait for her nod, but continued, “I thought that he just might pull it off. Here”—abruptly the shapeshifter’s voice lost its force and became querulous like that of a very old man—“take it and go back. I’m very tired—maintaining this shape is burdensome. Lys?” He shoved the sword at Aralorn and was gone with an abrupt pop.
    Aralorn took the sword and looked at it. It looked no more magical than it ever had, but still . . . it did match the description given for the Smith’s sword.
    And the sword gave her another idea. Sheathing it abruptly, she slipped it onto her belt. With Wolf’s staff in one hand, she ran out of the library to find Myr.

TWELVE

    Myr was never difficult to locate. Aralorn simply had to look for the largest group of people and head in that direction. She found him just outside the cave entrance, giving knife-fighting lessons to a group of the younger refugees. He glanced up and saw her as he was avoiding a crudely wielded blade; the distraction almost cost him a slit throat.
    He spoke for just a minute to his former opponent, who was white-faced and shaking. It was no light thing to come so close to killing a king. Aralorn shifted impatiently from one foot to the other as Myr dismissed the class and strode to her.
    He took a long look at her, noting the scrape on her cheek that she’d gotten rolling across the floor; the filth that clung to her; and Wolf’s staff, which she held clutched in one hand. He didn’t demand any explanations, merely asking in a businesslike tone, “What do you need?”
    “I need you to call the dragon to take me back to the ae’Magi’s castle. I can’t get there fast enough by myself.” She noticed with detached surprise that her voice was steady.
    Myr nodded, gestured for her to wait for him, and ducked back into the caves. He returned carrying his sword in one hand, the belt dangling from its sheath, and led the way through a thicket of brambleberry to a smallish clearing.
    Carefully, he unsheathed his sword and gave a rueful look to the blade that years of his grandfather’s warring had left unmarred. Then he drove it into the sandy soil, trying not to wince at the grating sound. Another time, Aralorn would have smiled.
    When he was done calling the dragon, he stood quietly beside her, not asking her what had happened. It was Aralorn who finally broke the silence.
    “We made it into the ae’Magi’s castle. He was waiting for us in the dungeons. I think that Wolf’s spell would have worked anyplace else. There was too much old magic, and the spell wasn’t strong enough and backlashed. I was on the floor already so it didn’t hit me very hard. The ae’Magi was knocked out momentarily. Wolf . . .” Her voice cracked and she stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “Wolf’s back is broken, he tricked me into touching his staff and sent me back here. I don’t know how fast a dragon can fly. Even if it consents to take me to the castle, it will probably be too late.”
    She laughed then, though it could have been a sob, and clasped the staff tighter. “He may have been right, and it was too late when he sent me back.”
    Myr didn’t say anything, but he put a comforting hand on her shoulder. A cold wind swept down the mountainside, and Aralorn shivered with impatience as much as chill. Even though she was watching intently, she didn’t see the dragon until it was overhead. Silver and green and as graceful as a hummingbird, the great reptile landed and eyed them with interest—or perhaps hunger.
    “I need you to get me to