Masques (43 page)

The thing, whatever it was, was fast and strong: When its tail hit the post of the bed, the wood cracked. It was also, thankfully, stupid—very stupid. It jumped at Aralorn with a shrill cry and impaled itself on the claws of Wolf’s staff.

Dying, it changed back into its former beauty and the woman blinked her green eyes—shapeshifter eyes—and said softly, “Please . . .” before she was unable to say anything.

“Plague it,” said Aralorn in an unsteady voice as she retrieved the staff in shaky hands. She backed into the corridor and had started down it when she noticed the hungry gaze of one of the Uriah focused on the bloody end of the staff. She thought of Lord Kisrah lying like an appetizer beside his bedmate’s corpse; she went back and shut the door to the bedroom and locked it with a simple spell that Lord Kisrah would have little trouble breaking when he woke up.

Just as she was about to give up hope, Aralorn rounded a corner and found herself in the great hall. From there it was a simple matter to find her way to the dungeon, and the closer she came, the stronger her follow-me spell summoned her. She was concentrating so hard on doing so that the whisper took her by surprise.

“Aralorn,” said the Uriah from the shadows near the stairway that led down to the dungeons.

She came to an abrupt halt and spun to face Talor. “What do you want?”

It laughed, sounding for a minute as carefree as he always had, then said in a harsh voice, “You know what I am. What do you think that I want, Aralorn?” It took a step closer to her. “I hunger, just as your companion will shortly. Leave, Aralorn, you can do no good here.”

Aralorn shifted her grip on Wolf’s staff from her right hand, which was getting stiff and sweaty, to her left. “Talor, where is your brother? I haven’t seen him here.”

“He didn’t make the transition to Uriah,” it said softly, and smiled. “Lucky Kai.”

Aralorn nodded and turned as if to go down the stairs; instead she continued her turn, drawing the sword as she moved. Smith’s weapon or not, the blade cut cleanly through the Uriah’s neck, beheading it. The body fell motionless to the stone floor.

“Sweet dreams, Talor,” she said soberly. “If I find Wolf in your condition, I will strive to do the same for him.”

With the sword in her right hand and the staff in her left, she started down the stairs. The lower levels were darker, but Wolf’s staff was emitting a faint glow that allowed her to see where she put her feet. As she started down the third set of steps, it occurred to her that she didn’t really know what she planned to do. Alone against the ae’Magi, she had no chance. Not only was he a better magician (by several orders of magnitude), but, if he was Wolf’s equal with a sword, he was a much better fighter than Aralorn.

The smells of the dungeon had become strong, and the stench didn’t help her stomach, which was already clinched with nerves. In the guardroom, she abandoned the staff because she didn’t know how to stop the crystals from glowing.

She sheathed the sword and dropped to her belly, ignoring the filth on the cold stone floor. Slowly, she slid into the dungeon, keeping to one side. The voices that had been indistinct were now intelligible. She heard Wolf speaking, and the huge weight of grief lifted off her shoulders.

“. . . why should I make this easier for you than I already have? This is a very easy shield to break through, most third-year magicians could do it. Would you like me to show you how?” Wolf’s voice was weaker than she’d ever heard it, but there was no more emotion in it than it ever had. “It does have the unfortunate effect of incinerating whatever the shield is guarding.”

“Ah, but I have another method of removing your protection.” The ae’Magi’s voice was a smooth contrast to his son’s. “I have been informed that the girl that you so impetuously sent away has returned all alone. She should be here momentarily if she isn’t already.”

For an instant, Aralorn plastered herself motionless to the floor before her common sense reasserted itself. It really didn’t matter if the ae’Magi knew she was coming, the element of surprise wasn’t going to help her much anyway. What did matter was that somehow Wolf had managed to hold the ae’Magi at bay, and no matter how much Wolf cared for her, he knew that it was more important that the ae’Magi not be able to control Wolf’s powers. He wouldn’t give himself to the ae’Magi just to save her skin . . . she hoped.

She inched forward a few steps more until she could see Wolf revealed by the light of the ae’Magi’s staff. He sat in almost the same position that he had been in when she left him. He had drawn a single orange line of power around himself, and there was something different about his position. She looked carefully and saw that he was cautiously moving his toes. She smiled; he had bought enough time with his barrier to heal himself.

Aralorn drew the sword and stepped into the light in front of Wolf. She expected an immediate reaction, but the ae’Magi was pacing back and forth with his back to her.

“. . . you should not have crossed me. With your power and my knowledge, you could have become a god with me. That’s all that the gods were, did you know it? Mages who had discovered the secret to eternal life, and I have it now. I will be a god, the only god, and you will help me do it.”

All of the dictates of honor demanded that she call attention to herself before she attacked. Aralorn, however, was a spy and a rotten swordswoman besides, so she struck him in the back.

Unfortunately the same spell that had rendered her knife useless previously was also effective against the sword, which slid harmlessly through him and knocked Aralorn off-balance. She turned her fall into a roll and kept going until she hit a wall. Although the sword hadn’t done the magician any harm, the metal grip had heated enough that she was forced to drop it on the ground.

It had something to do with hitting a magician with metal, she supposed.

“Ah,” said the ae’Magi with a smile, “who would think that the son of my flesh would fall for a silly girl who is stupid enough to try the same trick twice.”

He turned to Wolf and started to say something else, but Aralorn quit listening. She couldn’t believe that the Archmage was just dismissing her. She decided not to question her luck and began to shapechange, trusting that Wolf would see her and keep the ae’Magi’s attention long enough that she could complete the transition to icelynx.

“Don’t discount Aralorn so lightly, you may be surprised,” commented Wolf, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck. “Certainly I never thought that she could get back from the Northlands so quickly. Perhaps the Old Man of the Mountain sent her back.”

The ae’Magi snorted in disbelief. “You could not have sent her so far; the Northlands would have blocked such transportation. I do not care where she was. As for the Old Man of the Mountain myth, there is no such person, or I would have run into him long since.”

Wolf curved his lips in the dim light of the ae’Magi’s staff. “If you are so sure that the old gods are real, why not a folktale as well?”

The keener senses of the icelynx made the smell of the dungeon worse, and she curled her lips in a silent snarl of disgust as she stalked slowly toward the ae’Magi. She crouched behind him and twitched her stub of a tail, waiting for just the right moment before she sprang.

Her front claws dug into his shoulders for purchase while her hind legs raked his back, scoring him deeply. But that was all that she had time for before the ae’Magi’s staff caught her in the side of the head with enough force to toss her against a wall. As she lay dazed, her eyes focused on Wolf.

On his knees, Wolf carefully retraced the circle of power. Reaching out almost casually, he snagged his staff where it apparently had been waiting for him in the darkness.

“Father,” he said, getting to his feet.

The ae’Magi turned and, seeing Wolf, brought his staff up and took up a fighting stance. It was quiet for a moment, then Wolf struck. Some of the fighting was physical, some of it was magical, most of it was both—accompanied by a very impressive light show.

Aralorn watched from her corner and got slowly to her feet. Anything that she could do as an icelynx was likely to do as much harm as good with so much magic flying around. She took back her human shape, from habit as much as anything else. She had started to lean against the wall to watch when she caught a glimpse of the sword, half-buried in the filthy rushes on the floor. On impulse she picked it up; the heat that had made her drop it was gone.

Atryx Iblis
the Old Man had called it in an archaic dialect.
Atryx
was easy, it meant “devourer.”
Iblis
took her a while longer, but when she understood it, she smiled and held it at ready, waiting for a chance to use it again.

Healing himself had weakened Wolf, and he was showing it. His blocks were less sure, and he lashed out in fewer and fewer attacks. The ae’Magi was also tiring; the blood he was losing to the deep slashes that Aralorn had made on his back was bothering him, but it was Wolf who slipped in the muck on the floor and fell to one knee, losing his staff in the process.

For a second time Aralorn attacked the ae’Magi’s back with the sword, but this time she stabbed him with it instead of cutting him, and released the grip. The sword Ambris hung grotesquely from his chest, though it was doing no apparent harm. Without taking his eyes off Wolf, the ae’Magi swung the tip of his staff at Aralorn and said a quiet phrase.

Nothing happened, but the Smith’s sword was glowing brighter than either of the staves, bathing the dungeon with pink. Wolf got to his feet and retrieved his staff, but made no move to attack. Frantically, the ae’Magi grabbed the blade and pushed the sword out, cutting his fingers in the process, although the blade slid out easily enough and fell, shimmering, to the floor.

Aralorn grabbed it, heedless of the heat, and sheathed it, as she said conversationally, “The Old Man says that it’s one of the Smith’s weapons.
Atryx Iblis
, he calls it—Magic Eater.”

The ae’Magi’s staff was dark, just an elaborately carved stick to his touch. The ae’Magi’s hands formed the simple gestures to call forth light, and nothing happened. Turning to his son, he said, “Kill me, then.”

Passionlessly, the predator the ae’Magi had created looked at him with glittering yellow eyes, then said in his macabre voice, “No.”

Wolf turned to Aralorn and, gripping her arm tightly, transported them to the meadow where they’d faced the ae’Magi’s illusion, leaving the Archmage in the darkness, alone.

Wolf stepped back from Aralorn almost immediately and stood looking at the magician’s castle. Aralorn looked at his brooding face and wondered what he was thinking.

He spoke softly. “I am still what he made me, it seems.”

“No,” said Aralorn in a positive voice.

“Do you know what I just did? I left him bleeding, to face a castle full of Uriah that he no longer controls.”

“A kinder fate than he had in mind for you,” Aralorn reminded him, examining the burns the sword had left on her hand. “He has as much chance of escaping from the Uriah as Astrid did. More of a chance than Talor or Kai did.” There was nothing wrong with her that wouldn’t heal up in a few days.

“You also eliminated the threat that his faithful followers would attack us after we killed the ae’Magi,” she told him. “He’ll be found, mostly eaten by his former pets.”

Wolf caught her hand, and the burns disappeared from it, along with much of the dirt. Aralorn laughed softly and wiped her other hand on his cheek, showing him the smudge on it. “This time, you are almost as dirty as I am.”

“He’s dead,” Wolf said.

“Dead,” she agreed.

He closed his eyes and shuddered. She took his hand and he gripped it tightly.

“I think,” he told her, “that I have just enough magic to take us back to the library.”

“Let’s go find Myr and let him know what’s happened. Then I have to get back to Sianim and let Ren know that there is going to be a plaguing awful mess of Uriah running around that someone’s got to clean up. If he works it right, Sianim stands to make a lot of gold off this.”

“Not that you care,” Wolf said. “Since you gave up Sianim to follow Myr.”

“To follow you,” she said. “And I’ve had time to think a bit. Don’t you think it was a coincidence that Ren sent me to an inn not twenty miles from where the King of Reth was hiding? And you know what Ren says about coincidence.”

“Usually, coincidences aren’t,” said Wolf.

FINIS

The fifth baron of Tryfahr, Seneschal of the Royal Palace (also known as Haris the Smith) stepped into the kitchen to examine the food being prepared for the feast celebrating King Myr’s formal coronation. Seeing the Seneschal slip into the kitchen, the Lyon of Lambshold, who currently held the title of Minister of Defense, decided to join him.

In the main kitchen, the cook who ruled sprawled asleep in her rocking chair near the dessert trays, a nasty-looking wooden spatula in one hand. The new court taster stood silently near the stove.