Sianim 01 - Masques

was wrong with him. Bile rose in her throat as she brought the sword back up again, but before she could strike she was caught from behind and held helpless.
    What happened next was enough to top her worst nightmares. Talor smiled—and it was Talor despite the rotting flesh—and it said in Talor’s teasing voice, “I told you to always follow through on your strokes, or you would never make a swordmaster.”
    She thought that she screamed then, but it might have been just the sound of a Uriah lucky enough to feast on the horse.

SEVEN

    The wolf leapt neatly over the small stream that hadn’t been there the week before, and landed in the soft mud on the other side. The moon’s light revealed other evidence of the recent storm—branches bent and broken from the weight of a heavy snowfall, long grass lying flattened on the ground. The air smelled sweet and clean, washed free of heavy scents.
    Knowing that the camp was near, Wolf increased his speed to a swift lope despite his tiredness. He reached the edge of the valley and found it barren of people. He felt no alarm. Even if the storm hadn’t driven them to the caves, the meltwater from the heavy snow that turned most of the valley bottom to marsh would have.
    With a snort, he started down the valley side nearest where he had made his private camp. He decided to stop there and get his things before going on to the caves. Aralorn’s bedroll was gone, but his was neatly folded and dry under its oilcloth cover.
    He muttered a few words that he wouldn’t have employed had there been anyone to hear and took on his human form. Wearily, he stretched, more than half-inclined to stay where he was for the night and join the others in the morning.
    He’d always been solitary. As a boy and while an apprentice, he’d spent time alone as often as he could manage. He had become adept at finding places where no one would look.
    When he left his apprenticeship behind him, he’d taken wolf shape and run into the wilds of the Northlands, escaping from himself more than the ae’Magi. He had avoided contact with people at all costs. People made him uncomfortable, and he frightened them—even Myr, though that one hid it better than most. He had a grudging respect for the Rethian king but nothing that approached friendship.
    For Wolf, the only person who mattered was Aralorn.
    Absently, Wolf moved his bedroll with the toe of his boot. He made a sound that was not humorous enough to be a laugh. He’d been running away from and back to Aralorn for a long time. She had caught him in a spell, and he hadn’t even known that she was weaving one.
    Four years ago, he’d told himself that he followed her because he was bored and tired of hiding. Maybe it had even been true at first. She was always doing something. But then he’d heard her laugh. Until then, laughter had never made Wolf feel anything but repulsed (the ae’Magi laughed so easily).
    He needed to see her.
    Needing someone made him very uncomfortable. He didn’t remember ever needing anyone before, and he hated the vulnerability of it almost as much as he . . . as he loved her.
    It wasn’t until he’d found out that Aralorn was spying on the ae’Magi that he knew how much she meant to him. Even the thought of her there made him shake with remembered rage and fear.
    He wasn’t quite certain when his interest had turned to need. He needed her to let him laugh, to be human and not a flawed creation of the ae’Magi. He needed her trust so that he could trust himself. Most of all, he needed her touch. Even more than laughter—he associated touch with the ae’Magi—a warm hand on his shoulder (cut it so, child), an affectionate hug (it won’t hurt so much next time . . .).
    Aralorn was a tactile person, too, but her touch didn’t lie. It still made him uncomfortable to feel her hands on him, but he craved it anyway. He picked up the bedroll and went down into the valley since it was the shortest way to the caves. When he arrived at the valley floor, even his dulled human nose caught the scent.
    Uriah.
    Not panicking, he took a good look around him and noticed the signs of hasty packing as well as the fact that the tents (including the one that Myr had worked so hard to get finished) had been torn into pieces by something other than the wind. He also noticed that there were no obvious bones.
    He walked briskly though the camp to get a closer look. Here the scent was stronger, and everywhere were signs of anger