Patricia Briggs: Masques

It was late before the crowd began to thin and later still before everyone had gone. Aralorn couldn’t control her apprehension as each person left, knowing that the meager protection their presence offered would soon be gone. After seeing the last couple out, the ae’Magi walked slowly over to the cage.

“So,” he said, swaying gently back on his heels, “the Rethian doesn’t see my lovely Northland bird.”

“My lord?” she said neutrally. Having had most of the night to reflect upon the incident, she’d been pretty sure that the ae’Magi had figured that much out. She’d also had time to come to the conclusion that if he thought Myr was immune to magic, the ae’Magi’s primary power, Myr would die.

The Archmage smiled and flicked a silver bar of her cage with his forefinger chidingly. “When he looked at you, he looked where your eyes are, not where the eyes of the falcon would have been.”

Plague it, Aralorn thought. The ae’Magi put one hand through the bars and caressed her neck. She leaned against him and rubbed her cheek on his hand, forcing herself to obey the vague compulsion of the charismatic spell that had kept his guests happy instead of throwing herself backward and huddling in the far corner of the cage.

The ae’Magi tilted her face so that her eyes met his, and said in a leading tone, “I wonder how he broke through my illusion.”

He couldn’t expect a slave to understand what had happened, he was talking to himself. But he’d given her an opening—this was going to hurt.

“But he didn’t break through your spell, Master,” she answered in bewildered tones.

He looked down at her expressionlessly, and she quit fighting the urge to curl into a ball on the floor of the cage. He made a small motion with a finger, and she screamed as her body twisted helplessly under the fire of his magic.

Each time he did this to her was worse than the time before. Aralorn watched as the tendons pulled and stretched, protesting the sensations they endured. When it finally stopped, she didn’t fight the tremors that shook her, telling herself that she was playing her part—but wondering deep inside whether she could have stopped had she tried.

After she lay still, the ae’Magi said softly, “I don’t like to be contradicted, child. He knew you were not a falcon.”

It was over. Over. He probably wouldn’t do that again tonight. Or if he did, he’d at least give her some time to recover. She could tell herself that anyway.

“Yes, my lord,” she said hoarsely, from her position on the floor of the cage. “Of course he knew, I didn’t mean to contradict you—how could I? I misunderstood what you meant. You knew his magician broke the spell for him, how else would he have known?”

“What magician?” The ae’Magi’s voice was sharp, almost worried.

“He was standing over behind that pillar.” She pointed to someplace vaguely on the far side of the room, and the mage turned swiftly as if to look for someone still there.

“What made you think that he was a magician?”

“He made gestures like you do sometimes. He left with the young king.” Aralorn kept her voice to a whisper such as a frightened girl might use. No anger. No protest. People in his thrall felt pain all right, but they adored him even while they shuddered in fear of what he could do. She’d seen them.

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know, he stayed in the shadows. He was dressed all in blue, my lord.” Blue was the ae’Magi’s favorite color—a good third of the people in the room had been wearing some shade of blue.

“What did the boy say to you?” He held the word “boy” just a little longer than necessary, apparently liking it better than “king.”

“I don’t remember . . .”

Whatever he did with his spell didn’t work only on her body—though her muscles cramped hard enough that she thought she could hear the bones begin to break. The pain weakened Aralorn’s natural resistance to his other spells and gradually the newly familiar feeling of shame crept over her. She should try harder to please him. Why wasn’t she more obedient? Look at what she made him do to her. As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped, leaving her shuddering and crying helplessly.

“When I ask you something, I expect an answer.” The ae’Magi’s voice was gentle.

“He asked if I wanted to be freed. I told him I wanted to be here. I live only to serve you, my lord. It is my honor to serve the ae’Magi ...” She let her voice trail off. That’s it, she cheered herself silently, placate him, stay in character; the gasps as she fought against crying and the whimper at the end were a nice touch; artistic really—it was too bad that she hadn’t thought to do them on purpose.

He reached a hand out to her, and she pressed against it, getting as close to him as she could though the pain had gone and, with it, the full effect of his magic. She almost wished that the magic he used to increase his charisma stayed as effective on her as it was when he hurt her. Instead, she experienced an overwhelming desire to bite the manicured fingers—or throw up. The cold, metal edge of the cage dug into her side.

“What else did you say to him, little one?”

Aralorn pulled back from him and gave him a wide-eyed, somewhat confused look, even as she felt herself regain some clarity of thought. “Did you want me to say something else to him? I didn’t because I wasn’t sure if you would want me to.” She deliberately widened her eyes as if she were pleading with him to be pleased with her, trying to keep herself from tensing in anticipation of the wild, twisting pain.

“No. You did well.” He absently patted her cheek. “I’ve been working on other things lately and haven’t had the time to do more with you. Tomorrow, when I’ve completed this spell, I’ve got a use for you.”

If she were in any doubt about what he was talking about, the hand that ran lightly down her breast would have clarified it for her. The ae’Magi seemed satisfied that the shudder that ran through her at his touch was in response to desire. He smiled warmly at her and, humming a sweet tune, walked lightly through an archway.

Aralorn stared at herself in the mirror at the back of her cage. The ae’Magi must have dispelled his illusion, because she didn’t see a bird anymore. The flickering light from the torches gave a dancing appearance to the fine, blond hair. The fragile face that stared expressionlessly back at her was extraordinarily beautiful. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, and the misty, sea-green eyes looked dazed and vulnerable.

Abruptly irritated with that vulnerability, Aralorn stuck her tongue out at her reflection. It didn’t make her feel any better.

She wrapped both arms tightly around her legs. Head bowed on her knees, she listened to the sounds the servants made as they banked the fireplaces and snuffed the torches, trying to think over the uncontrollable panic that the thought of his intimate touch brought on.

“Patience, Aralorn, patience,” she warned herself, speaking almost soundlessly. “If you leave now—granting that you can leave—he is going to doubt what you told him about Myr, which may not matter in the long run anyway.” She tilted her head back and addressed her words to the reflection, summoning up a tone of bleak humor. “But if I don’t get out of here, I’m going to break and tell him everything I know, from the name of my first pony to the bald spot on the top of Audreas the Vain’s head.”

It was the truth. Four days—she didn’t count the time she’d spent locked up alone. A fifth day here would break her. And someone needed to let the Spymaster know what dwelled in the ae’Magi’s castle.