Sianim 01 - Masques

a more comfortable position”—he indicated her troublesome hobble with a careless hand—“and back under the covers with you before you catch your death, shall we?” His voice was a wicked imitation of one of the healers at Sianim.
    Even as he untangled her and restored her makeshift bed to its previous order, she could feel an imp of a headache coming on. “Wolf,” she said softly, catching his hand and stilling it, “don’t use the scars. You are not the ae’Magi—you don’t have to prove it.”
    He tapped her on the nose and shook his head with mock despair. “Did anyone ever tell you that you are overbearing, Lady?” That “Lady” told her that things were all right between the two of them.
    That knowledge meant that the crisis was over, and she was suddenly exhausted. He resumed his efforts and tucked a pillow behind her head.
    “Where are we, and how long have we been here?” It was an effort to keep her eyes open any longer, and her voice slurred as she finished the sentence, ending in a racking cough. As she hacked and gasped for breath, he lifted her upright. She didn’t notice that it helped any, but the feel of his arms around her was pleasant.
    The hazy thought occurred to her that the greater part of the reason she’d left Reth to go to Sianim in the first place was to get away from the feeling of being protected. Now she was grateful for it. She didn’t think that he’d notice that the last few coughs were suppressed sounds of self-directed amusement.
    “We’re about a day’s brisk walk away from the Master Magician’s castle. We’ve been here for three days. As soon as you wake up, we’ll start on our way.”
    He said something more, she thought, but she couldn’t be bothered to stay awake for it.
    He bent down and whispered it again. This time she heard it. “Sleep. I have you safe.”

    The next time Aralorn regained consciousness, she was ruthlessly fed and dressed in a tunic and trousers she recognized as her own before she had a chance to do any more than open her eyes. She was propped up with brisk efficiency beside a tree and told to “stay there.” Wolf then piled all of the blankets, clothes, and utensils together and sent them on their way with a brisk wave of his staff.
    “Where did you get my clothes?” Aralorn asked with idle curiosity from where she sat leaning against a tree. Her tree.
    “From Sianim, where you left them.” With efficient motions, he was cleaning the area they had occupied until only the remains of the fire would give any indication that someone had camped there.
    She’d known that. Had just needed him to admit it to her.
    She raised an eyebrow at him, crossed her arms over her chest, and said in a deceptively mild tone, “You mean the whole time that I was all but bursting out of the innkeeper’s son’s clothes, wearing blisters on my feet with his boots—you could have gotten mine for me?”
    He grunted without looking at her, but she could see a hint of a smile in his flawless profile. He was, she decided, without it soothing her ire in the least, more beautiful than his sire.
    “I asked you a question,” she said in a dangerously soft tone she’d learned from him.
    “I was waiting for the tunic seams to finally give way . . .” He paused to dodge the handful of grass she threw at him, then shrugged. “I am sorry, Lady. It just never occurred to me.”
    Aralorn tried to look stern, but the effort turned into a laugh.
    Wolf brushed the grass from his shoulders and went back to packing. Aralorn leaned back against her tree and watched him as he worked, trying to get used to the face he now wore.
    In an odd sort of way, he looked more like his father than his father did. The ae’Magi’s face was touched with innocence and compassion. Wolf’s visage had neither. His was the face of man who could do anything, and had.
    “Can you ride?” he asked, calling her back from her thoughts.
    Aralorn considered the state of her body. Everything functioned—sort of, anyway. Riding was certainly better than any alternative she could think of. She nodded. “If we don’t go any faster than a walk. I don’t think that I could sit a trot for very long.”
    He nodded and said three or four brisk words in a language she didn’t know. He didn’t bother with the theatrics in front of her. The air merely shimmered around him strangely. Not unpleasant—just difficult to look at, much nicer than when she changed shape. The black horse