Patricia Briggs: Masques

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.

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.

The new cook was a marvel; the fowl had never been so moist, the beef so tender, and her sweets were beyond comparison. More wondrous still was that she was able to maneuver her bulk around (though no one but the hulking taster who lurked in the corner had ever witnessed it) and cook.

“So,” commented Haris, “the mercenaries have offered to help clean up the Uriah.”

“Aye,” snorted the Defense Minister, “for a discounted rate, since their troops will be in the vicinity clearing the Uriah out of Darran as well. They’ve already cleared out the ae’Magi’s castle.” His hand crept out involuntarily to hover over one of the lacy sugar cakes.

“I wouldn’t,” muttered the Seneschal to the Lyon, nodding at the massive hand that was tightening around the spatula’s handle though the cook’s eyes had remained closed. He cleared his throat and remarked in a louder tone, “Likely they were hoping to find the ae’Magi in a state to pay them, but I heard that they couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere.” There was a note of satisfaction in his tone.

The Lyon snatched his hand back, and said absently, “Eaten, most likely, poor man. Sianim’ll probably make the next ae’Magi pay them before they turn the castle over to—” He was interrupted by a shout from one of the pages, who seemed to be taking over the castle lately.

“Haris! . . . Uhm, excuse me . . . I mean, my lord. Myr . . . uh, King Myr wants to know if the delegation from Ynstrah is here yet? He can’t find them anywhere, though the gatekeeper says that they came in last night.” The page stood at the top of the stairs pulling at the velvet surcoat he wore.

“Tell him I’m coming, Stanis,” grunted the Seneschal.

The Lyon gave a last look at the cakes as he followed Haris up the stairs.

When they were safely gone, the small, bright sea-green eyes of the cook opened, almost concealed in the folds of her face. She shifted her amazing mass out of the chair and waddled to the bakery trays. Taking a cake in her pudgy hand, she threw it to the guardsman who served as taster. He caught it easily despite the eye patch he wore.

“I told Ren that we wouldn’t learn anything at an event this size,” she said. “There isn’t enough privacy for any good plotting. The only thing that ever happens at a state occasion is an assassination attempt, but Myr has already hired Sianim guards to stop that.”

The guard nodded—he’d heard her complaint more than once. He examined the little delicacy with his good eye before biting into it, saying, “You could have let him have the cake, Aralorn. They’re easy enough to make.” Another cake appeared in his hand as he spoke, and he tossed it to Aralorn.

“I couldn’t undermine the authority of the castle cook,” said Aralorn in a shocked voice, while catching the treat with a dexterity that was out of character. “Besides,” she added, taking a bite of her cake, “this way they’ll enjoy the two that Haris snitched even more.”

Wolf sauntered to the dessert trays and saw that there were indeed three delicacies missing. “Should we tell Myr that his Seneschal is light-fingered?”

“Not unless he wants to pay for the information. We’re mercenaries, after all, Wolf.” Aralorn licked her fingers. “By the way, where did you learn to cook like this?”

Wolf bared his teeth at her, and said, his voice as macabre as always, “A magician needs must keep some secrets, Lady.”