Sianim 01 - Masques

have had a hard time keeping him.
    When it was time to dig latrines, sew, or hunt, Aralorn watched over the children. It was nice to have a ready audience who believed every word that came out of her mouth—at least until they got to know her better. Keeping the mischievous, magic-toting hellions out of trouble kept her from getting restless while Wolf was away. It also kept her from latrine duty.

    The storm struck without warning two nights later. Within moments, the temperature dropped below freezing. Without a tent to cover her, since she was still sleeping in Wolf’s camp, Aralorn woke as the first few flakes fell. Instincts developed from years of camping had her gathering her bedding before she was really awake. Even so, by the time she left Wolf’s chosen spot and made it into the main camp, most of what she carried was already covered with snow.
    At the camp, Aralorn found that Myr, efficient as ever, was shuffling people who had occupied inadequate tents to the few that looked like they would hold up in the storm. Seeing her trudge in, Myr motioned her toward his own.
    She found it full of frightened people. The storms of the Northlands were rightfully legendary for their fierceness. Although their camp was protected from the brunt of the storm by the steep walls of the valley, the angry howl of the wind was so loud that it made it difficult to hear when someone spoke.
    Evaluating the situation, Aralorn casually found a place for her blankets, lay down, and closed her eyes, ignoring the slight dampness left on her bedroll after she had brushed the snow off. Her nonchalance seemed to work because everyone settled down and were mostly asleep when Myr returned to his bed.
    By morning the worst of the storm was over. The snow was knee deep everywhere, and in places it had drifted nearly waist high.
    Aralorn was helping with the fire when Myr found her and pulled her aside. “I’m no mage, but I do know that this is a freak storm. Feel the air. It’s already getting warm, the snow is starting to melt. The storms come suddenly here, I know—but this is more like the spring storms. The winter storms hit and don’t ease for weeks. Did you notice anything unnatural about it?”
    Aralorn shook her head and sneezed—sleeping in damp bedding wasn’t the best thing for one’s health. She wasn’t the only one coughing. “No, I wondered about that myself so I tried to check. I couldn’t find any trace of magic”—human magic, anyway; there was always green magic in a storm—“in the storm, although there was something strange about it, I’ll grant you.” She shrugged. “If the ae’Magi was causing that storm, he was trying to hide it, which is something he could probably do—at least from me. Weather isn’t something that mages like him are generally good with. The trappers who hunt these parts for furs would tell you that it was the Old Man of the Mountains who caused the storm.”
    There was a brief silence, then Myr, who was beginning to know her, smiled slowly. “I’ll take my cue, storyteller. Who is the Old Man of the Mountain?”
    She grinned cheerfully at him. “The trappers like to tell a lot of stories about him. Sometimes he is a monster who drives men mad and eats them. Other times he is a kindly old man who does things that kindly old men can’t do—like change the weather.” Maybe he might guide a child to safety, she thought. Given that there’s a thread of truth in any story. Sometimes just a piece as big as spider silk. She’d run it past Wolf when he returned. “The Old Man of the Mountain is invited to every trapper’s wedding or gathering, and a ceremonial place is laid for him when the trapping clans meet in their enclave each year to decide which trapper goes where.”
    “Which mountain?” he asked.
    Aralorn shrugged. “ ‘The Mountain,’ ” she said. “I don’t know. I’ve met trappers who swear that they have met him. But I’ve never seen the story in any book.”
    “Do you think he could be one of the shapeshifters?”
    “The Old Man who drives men mad and eats them, certainly,” she said. “But I’ve never met a full-blood shapeshifter who’d help a human find water in the middle of a river.”
    “Could one of them have brought the storm?”
    Impossible to explain fully how taboo it was for a green mage to mess with the greater weather patterns. Taboo implied ability, and she didn’t want the King of Reth to know that her mother’s kin had that