Sianim 01 - Masques

the last decade or so they’d begun to turn up in unexpected places. But to find them this far west was almost unheard of. Especially since the ae’Magi could certainly . . .
    “Stupid!” she exclaimed out loud. The warhorse, slightly spooked by the nasty smell behind them and miffed by the slow pace they were taking, took exception to the sudden sound and bucked hard. She didn’t fall off, but it was a near thing, and it took a while to stop the curvetting completely. “The sudden upswing in Uriah attacks, their appearance in places where there have never been Uriah before—that’s all him, isn’t it?”
    The wolf waited until the show stopped, then said, “They belong to him.” Without commenting further, he continued on, leaving Aralorn to follow as she could.
    The sun began to rise on the silent travelers. Aralorn was quiet at first because she didn’t know how to undo the damage she’d done to him with her distrust; after a while, it was fatigue that kept her silent. Three weeks with no exercise left her feeling as if she were recovering from a prolonged illness. Despite her tiredness, when the wolf halted and told her they were stopping for the afternoon, she protested.
    “If we don’t stop and let the horse graze and get some rest, you’ll be walking tomorrow.” He spoke slowly and clearly, and his voice managed to pierce through her exhaustion.
    She nodded, knowing he was right, but the urge to run away from the castle was stronger than her common sense, so she didn’t dismount. The horse arched his neck and blew, as if ready for battle, responding to the invisible signals of his rider.
    Wolf was silent until he saw her sway in the saddle from sheer tiredness. “I will stay on watch, Lady. I know when the ae’Magi or his playthings are near, and I won’t let them take you back.” His voice softened.
    Again she nodded, but this time she dismounted and, with more instinct than willpower, began to untack the horse. The light saddle seemed to weigh more than she remembered, and it was an effort to reach high enough to get the bridle off—but she managed. Sheen needed no restraint to keep him close.
    She untied the sleeping roll and climbed in it without even dusting off her clothes. The wolf stretched out beside her, his big warm body warding off the chill of lingering fear even better than her blankets. The last thing she noticed before sleep claimed her was the comforting sound of the stallion munching grass.

TWO

    Aralorn breathed in ragged gasps and rubbed a shaky hand across the wetness on her cheeks. Sweating, and still half-caught in her nightmare, she curled under her blanket and covered her ears with her hands to shut out the soft seductive voice of the ae’Magi.
    She’d fought in the regular troops and knew that nightmares were part of the territory. They’d get better, but for right now, every time she drifted to sleep, her dreams all led back to the Archmage’s fine-boned hand holding the ornate silver dagger he used to butcher his sacrifices. The young brown-eyed boy, no older than some of her brothers the last time she’d seen them, was so caught by the spell that he smiled as the ae’Magi drew his knife. At least it was daylight when she opened her eyes—and the dirt under the leather comprising the outer layer of her bedroll felt a lot different from marble.
    She sat up abruptly and wiped at her wet cheeks. Sheen stood nearby, dozing with one hind foot cocked and his convex nose lowered almost to knee level. Near Sheen, Wolf lay still, his muzzle on his paws. He was looking away from her. Aralorn knew that he must have heard her when she woke up, so his inattention was deliberate. Her momentary fear had hurt him—she hadn’t realized he worried about her opinion. She hadn’t thought he worried much about anyone’s opinion of him.
    She addressed his back. “That place—it . . . twists everything. There is so much magic in the castle, it makes the air heavy, and when I breathed it . . . He loves it, you know—playing games and making people into his puppets. Power.”
    She shuddered slightly, and continued, “I watched him drink the blood of a child he’d just killed, and I found myself thinking how beautifully the light of the candles reflected off his hair. It’s . . . not pleasant not to know whether your feelings are your own.” She brought her legs up until she could wrap her arms around them.
    She’d begun in an attempt to explain herself to Wolf—to