Masques by Patricia Briggs Read Free Book Online Page A

came and went, sometimes staying away for months at a time, then appearing as suddenly as he had left.
    She remembered how long she’d worked to gain his trust. It had taken time to get him to let her touch him, more time before he would eat food she gave him, and almost a year before he trusted her enough to reveal for certain that he was more than just a wild animal. She compared his remoteness to the ae’Magi’s easy smile and beautiful voice. If she ever met a corpse that talked, she imagined that its voice would be similar to her wolf’s.

    The wolf watched her and saw the wear of her time with the ae’Magi. He saw the tremor of her hands and smelled the sweat of her fear. He saw that she’d used the cheerful demeanor that was her habit as a mask, and he lost the hope that she had by some miracle escaped unscathed from the ae’Magi’s games. The desire to kill the Archmage rose in his throat and was set aside for future use. He saw the fear in her eyes, but until he stepped closer to comfort her, he didn’t realize that she was afraid of him.
    Instantly, he halted. This was the one thing that he hadn’t expected. Four years, and never had he seen the fear that he’d inspired in everyone else he’d ever met. Not even when she’d had reason to fear.
    The old ache of bitterness urged him to flee. If they had been somewhere else, he would have left without a backward glance, but here, near the castle, she was still in desperate danger; already he could smell the excitement of the ae’Magi’s “pets.” She wouldn’t be able to lose them on her own despite her training and surprisingly formidable combat skills—she wasn’t very big to be so dangerous. After three weeks in confinement, she was hardly at her best, so he waited.

    Whoever he was, whatever he was—he was not anything like the ae’Magi. She was jumping at shadows. But that certainty had come too late; she could see it in the stillness of Wolf’s body.
    She crouched down to look him in the eye; she didn’t have to lower herself far—he was tall and she wasn’t. “I’m sorry. I’m . . . just a little shaky”—she gave a half laugh and held up an unsteady hand—“as you can see. He’s got me doubting everything I know.” She moved the hand to touch him, and he quietly moved just out of reach.
    She knew that she had hurt him, but before she could fix it, the stallion snorted softly. She turned back to him and saw that he was twitching his ears back and forth and shifting his weight uneasily.
    “Uriah,” commented the wolf, looking away from her. “If they are getting close enough that even Sheen can smell them, we’d best be on our way. There are riding clothes in the saddlebags. Put them on, we may have a long ride ahead.”
    She wiped herself off as best she could on the simple cotton slave tunic she wore. Ten years of being a mercenary had destroyed any vestige of ladylike modesty she might once have felt, but she hurried into the clean clothes anyway, as they could use every second to avoid a confrontation with the Uriah.
    She swung into the saddle and let the wolf lead the way at the brisk trot dictated by the rough country and the dark. Had the Uriah been closer, she would have risked a fall with a faster gait, but for now there was no need for panic.
    When she had scrounged for her clothes, Aralorn found that the saddlebags also contained oatcakes. She pulled a couple out and ate one as she rode, feeding the other to the horse, who knew how to eat and move at the same time. When she offered one to the wolf, he refused. She let him pick the way, trusting him to do his best to rid themselves of the Uriah.
    The Uriah were vaguely human-looking creatures that appeared more dead than alive though they were almost impossible to kill. The insatiable hunger that drove them gave them a berserker’s ferocity. They were normally found only in the far eastern regions that bordered the impassable Marshlands, but in the last decade or so