Sianim 01 - Masques

he’d catch the subtle difference.
    He did. “ Who are you?”
    She gave him an apologetic smile as she pulled at the uncomfortably tight front of the tunic. “Lady Aralorn of Lambshold, at your service.”
    “One of Henrick’s daughters.” Myr’s voice carried a hint of incredulity.
    Aralorn nodded, smiling apologetically. “I know, I don’t look much like him, do I? He didn’t think so either. I was quite a disappointment to him.” She rolled up the sleeves until she could see her hands again.
    “No, that’s not what I mean,” said Myr. “I’ve seen you in court—a long time ago. You’re his oldest child?”
    She laughed. “You must have been all of ten. I’m the oldest daughter, but I have a brother a year older than I am. We two are the illegitimate get of youthful folly. My older brother’s mother was a household maid, and my mother was a shapeshifter who seduced poor Father in the nearby woods. With fourteen of us, I can see where you could have trouble keeping us straight. My siblings are all copies of our father, rather unfortunate for my sisters, but my brothers are all considered quite handsome.”
    She startled a laugh out of Myr at her descriptions of her family. Her sisters were all quite beautiful, golden like their father—and like their father, they overtopped most men by a good handspan.
    “How did you end up in Sianim?”
    She tilted her head, thinking about how best to frame a reply. “I am too much my father’s daughter to be content with sewing a dress or learning how to converse. He taught me swordplay with my brothers because I asked him. When it came time for me to go to court, it was obvious to both him and me that as a Lady I was hopeless. He gave me his own horse and sent me on my way.”
    It had been a lot more complicated than that, but that had been the heart of the matter. The rest of it wouldn’t matter to the King of Reth. As she talked, she worked at rolling up her pant legs. Finally, she cut the bottom off with her dagger. There was nothing to be done for the boots.
    “Somehow that sounds like the Lyon of Lambshold. He’s the only man I know who is unconventional enough to do that.” Myr shook his head.
    Straightening up to her unimpressive height, Aralorn continued, “He said, if memory serves, that if no one had the nerve to laugh in his face when he was addressed as the ‘Lyon of Lambshold,’ no one would say anything about an absent daughter.”
    “If you are through talking, it might be best if we left for camp.” The harsh voice was distracted, and Wolf’s eyes focused on some distant point.
    “Someone coming?” Myr changed in an instant from courtier to warrior.
    Wolf grunted, then said, “Not here, but near enough that we ought to move out. So much magic was bound to attract attention.”
    Aralorn left them to their packing and ducked through the trees to grab her horse. As she checked the girth, she muttered to Sheen, “I wonder what mischief our friend Wolf has been up to?”

FOUR

    When Aralorn awoke to face her first full day at Myr’s camp, it was still dark. She slipped out through the tent opening, moving quietly to avoid disturbing the two women who had shared their quarters with her. She retied the crude flap so the cold early-morning air would stay outside.
    Most of the tents in the camp were makeshift. Several were little more than a rug stretched over a stick or rope in true field-soldier style. The only tent she’d seen that had been worthy of the name belonged to Myr, who shared it uncomplaining with a number of the smaller children.
    As she passed Myr’s tent, near the fire pit, she gave the royal dragon embroidered on the side a respectful nod, but it glared balefully at her anyway. The flickering light of the fire gave the illusion of life to the green-gold eyes.
    Also near the fire pit was one of the few wooden structures in the camp. The kitchen was little more than a three-sided shed, but it kept the food dry. The camp cook was already up, chopping something by lantern light, but he stopped long enough to give Aralorn a look no more friendly than the dragon’s had been. Aralorn grinned cheerfully at him and kept on her way.
    The camp was located in a small dale, no bigger than the largest of the riding arenas in Sianim, that lay half a day’s ride north of the Rethian border. It was long and narrow, with a stream in the middle that she suspected would cover a much larger area in the spring, when the top layer