Masques (21 page)

By this time Wolf was used to Aralorn laughing at odd moments, but he had just finished deciphering a particularly useless spell and so was ready to relax for a minute.

“What is it?”

She grinned at him and waved the frail cluster of parchment in his general direction. “Look at this. I found it hidden in a book and thought that it might be a spell or something interesting, but it looks as though someone who had the book before you acquired it was quite an artist.”

He took the sheets from her. They were covered with scenes of improbably endowed nude figures in even more improbable positions. He was about to give it back to her when he stopped and took a closer look.

He crumpled the pages and flamed them. Someone had set protection and hide-me spells, doubtless the reason Aralorn hadn’t felt its power, but the old magic wasn’t up to withstanding his will. The drawings—on sheets of human skin, though he wasn’t about to tell Aralorn—flared deep purple and silver before settling into gold-and-red fire. He dropped the flaming bits, and they fluttered to the table, burning to ash before touching down. If it smelled like burning flesh, she’d probably just assume they had been made of goatskin.

“Wolf?”

“You were right on your first guess.” He couldn’t look at her. “It is a spell. It’s a rather crude representation on how to summon a demon.”

“Demon?” asked Aralorn, sounding interested without being eager. “I didn’t think that there was any such thing, or do you mean an elemental, like the one that tried to kill Myr?”

Wolf tilted his head and laughed without humor. He should just drop it, but felt the self-destructive urge that had been such a huge part of who he’d once been take hold of his tongue. “This from a shapeshifter? Yes, there are demons, I’ve summoned them myself. Not many magicians are willing to try it. Mistakes in the spellcasting can be dangerous, and it’s getting difficult to find a virgin who can be forced to submit to the process. The ae’Magi never had a problem with it, though; his villagers could always produce some sort of victim.

“The depiction was not entirely accurate. It isn’t necessary for the magician to participate in the sexual activities unless he wishes to. He can use a proxy if he wishes.”

Wolf continued to outline the practices of summoning demons. It wasn’t something she’d want to listen to on a full stomach, and if Aralorn hadn’t been a mercenary, she wouldn’t have been able to sit coolly through it all—but a reaction was what he wanted, and she’d be plague-stricken before she gave it to him. So she maintained a remote facade while she listened. This, she decided, was his way of driving her away after the closeness of last night.

“. . . so afterward, it is necessary to dispose of the focus, or the demon will be able to use her again to return without summoning. The blood of a woman used in such a fashion is valuable, as are the hair and several other body parts. The most useful method of killing the girl is to slit her throat.” His voice was clinically precise. His glittering eyes never left hers.

She listened to his detached description of the horrors he’d committed and decided that she must be in love because what she really heard was the self-directed hatred that initiated his lecture. Doubtless he’d participated in the twisted ceremony of demon summoning and probably worse. Aralorn was even more certain that it now revolted him as much as he intended it to appall her. Possibly it had revolted him even then.

She waited until he was starting to run out of details, cupping her hand under her chin in feigned boredom. When he stopped speaking, she said, “Fine. I understand. You’ve done things that a normal human being would find abhorrent. All right. You’ve stopped doing them . . . I hope. Now can we get back to work?”

There was a long pause, then Wolf commented in the same dry tones he’d been using before. “You are frustrating at times, aren’t you?”

She grinned at him. “Sorry, Wolf. I can’t help it; melodrama has that effect on me.”

“Pest,” he said, his tone not at all affectionate, but then his voice seldom showed what he thought.

“I try,” she said modestly, and was pleased when his eyes warmed with humor.

Deciding that the crisis was over, she bounced up and strolled to a bookcase several rows away from the table, out of sight of Wolf to give them both time to calm down and sort things out. Absently, she plucked a book from a nearby shelf. She had started to open it when it whisked itself out of her hands and leapt back on the shelf with a loud thud.

She stared at it for a minute, then took two quiet steps backward until she could see Wolf, seated half of the room away with his back toward her, muttering to himself as he wrote. There was no one else in the library.

Carefully, without opening it, she picked up the book again and examined it. Now that she was paying attention, she could see the faint magical aura that was just barely visible woven into the cotton that covered the thin wood that lent the cover its hardness.

Just to be sure, she took the book to Wolf for inspection.

“Trapped,” he confirmed, and sent a flash of magic toward the book. A pop, a sharp scent, and a bit of dust floated up and returned to the surface of the book. He opened it and glanced through. “Not a grimoire. Looks like it might be a diary.”

She sat down with the book—for lack of anything better to do. Rather than a diary, it contained the autobiographical history (exaggerated) of a mediocre king of a long-forgotten realm. As a distraction from the gory details of Wolf’s discourse that kept trying to play themselves out in her head, it ranked right up there with sewing and digging holes in the dirt. She had no idea why anyone would have thought it valuable enough to trap.

“Wolf,” she said, staring at open pages. Time to ask him rather than trying to figure out what was going on herself.

“Hmm?”

“Is there someone besides us in your library?” She kept her tone carefully nonchalant.

“Hmm,” he said again, and there was a quiet thump as he set his book on the table. Aralorn did the same. “What prompted you to ask?”

She told him of her odd experiences, leaving out the last incident to spare herself his censure. When she was through, he nodded.

“These mountains have a reputation for odd happenings, like Astrid’s guide through the cave. A ghost or spirit of some sort would not be out of place.” He paused. “Though I brought these with me from the ae’Magi’s castle, I suppose something could have come over with them.”

It didn’t sound like it bothered him too much.

He looked over at her, read her face, and shrugged. “So far whatever is here has been relatively helpful. It could just as easily have hidden your papers or led Astrid to fall into one of the pits. With the ae’Magi to deal with, it is surely the least of evils.”

When they left the caves it was still light outside. The skies were slightly overcast, but the wind was from the south, so it was warm enough.

Aralorn took a deep breath of air and Wolf’s arm at the same time. “Have I thanked you yet for rescuing me from the tedium of mopping the floor of the inn for another six months or however long Ren decided to leave me there?” she said to distract him from her touch.

His stride broke when she took his arm, and he stiffened a little. She’d have backed off, but he put his hand on hers where it hooked into his elbow.

“I am certain”—he said gravely—“I will find the proper way for you to express your gratitude. I noticed just today that the library floors are starting to get a bit dusty.”

Aralorn gave an appreciative snort and quickened her pace a bit to keep up with him. He noticed what she was doing and slowed his stride until her shorter legs could keep up.

They were traveling in comfortable silence until Wolf stopped abruptly and snapped his fingers.

“I just remembered where I read that story about the apprentice who killed his master. It will take me a few days to get the book. Tell Myr that I’ve gone seeking a clue. Between the two of you, you should be able to handle anything that happens.” He stepped away from her, then turned back. “Don’t go to the library without me, I’d rather lose a few days’ work than have you turned into a rock if you opened the wrong book.”

Aralorn nodded. “Take care of yourself.”

He took the wolf’s shape and disappeared into the woods with all the stealth of a real wolf. It wasn’t until he was gone that she thought to wonder how the camp would take the fact that she was returning without Wolf after the events of last night. Edom’s death would not have vindicated her of all suspicion. With a wry smile, she resumed her course.

At the camp, Aralorn skulked around until she found Myr organizing a hunt for the next day, as the camp supplies were getting low. She caught his attention and waited for him to finish. Listening to him work was unexpectedly fascinating.

He reassured and soothed and organized until he had a small, skilled party who knew where to go and how to get back—without any of those who were not chosen feeling slighted or overlooked. With everybody as edgy as they were, this was a major accomplishment. If Myr survived to regain his throne, he would be a ruler that Reth would not soon forget.

“What did you need, Aralorn?” Myr asked, approaching her after he sent the others to their appointed tasks.

“Wolf is going to be absent for a few days. He is looking for a book that might be able to help us fight the ae’Magi.”

She kept her voice neutral, not certain how he would take it. He had no reason to trust her except that Wolf did—and Wolf was gone.

“All right,” he said. When she didn’t take that as a dismissal, he paused and considered what she’d said again. “I see your problem. You think people are going to wonder if you were really the villain last night and have completed your nefarious plot today.”

Aralorn nodded, relieved that he seemed not the least bit leery of her. “I didn’t think of it until Wolf was already gone, or I would have made him come back to camp before he left. I thought that you might want to break the news.”

Myr nodded. “I’ll tell them that he left and leave out the details. There are enough things to worry about—we don’t need a lynching.”

Abruptly, like an extinguished candle, the taut energy that generally characterized him was gone. He just looked very tired. He needed to pace himself better.

“You need to let them look after themselves for a while,” she told him. “They don’t really need you to tell them what shoe they should put on which foot or how to make stew.”

Myr laughed involuntarily. “You saw that one, huh? How should I know how much salt to put in? I’ve never cooked anything in my life—that was edible, at any rate.”

“I wish I could help you more; but even if they aren’t terrified of me, I’m not someone they can trust. You have my sympathy—for what it’s worth.”

“Thanks, anyway.” He glanced up at the cloudless evening sky. “I wish all the tents were done and we had twice as much food. The winter comes in the blink of an eye this far north. My old groom could predict the weather. He told me that the air had a tartness to it before a snowstorm, but I could never smell it.” He was talking to himself more than Aralorn. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and headed toward the center of activity.

Aralorn watched as he stopped and laid a hand on the shoulder of an older woman plying a needle. Whatever he said made her smile.

He looked as if he’d seen ten years more than she knew he had, and she wondered if he would live to see the year out. He’d probably wondered about that, too.

Since Wolf had asked her to stay out of the library, Aralorn did her best to keep busy. It wasn’t difficult. Without Pussywillow or Wolf, only she and Myr had the training to teach the motley band of rebels how to fight.

Haris was easily the best student. The muscles he’d developed swinging a smith’s hammer lent an impressive strength to his blows. Like most big men he was a little slow, but he knew how to compensate for it. In unarmed combat, he could take Aralorn but not Myr.