Masques (Sianim #1)(13)

"It must be some sort of variation of the spells that he had at his castle, but I didn't think that anyone could create a spell of this magnitude alone." Aralorn's tone was questioning.

"He's not doing it alone," replied the Wolf. "He started small. The villages near the Magician's castle have quite a few people who are strong in magic. The side effect of having groups of young, virile magicians apprenticing at the castle for several hundred generations." His tone was ironic. "The adults that he couldn't subdue he killed, because they were not suitable for his purposes. But the children ..."

Aralorn shuddered, and rubbed her arms as if chilled.

"I perceive that you've seen what he does with the children." Wolf's tone gentled. "Apparently he's found some way to use them to increase his abilities. Fifteen years ago, in the village, if you made a negative remark about the ae'Magi, their reaction would be somewhat like Talor's. Now the streets are empty of all but old men and women. He needs still more prey. Sianim, I think, is merely getting the backlash of the main focus."

"What is the main focus?" she asked.

"Where is magic at its strongest? Where do many of the common villagers have the ability to work charms? Where has magic nourished, protected by strong rulers from the persecution that magic-users were subject to after the great wars?"

"Reth," she answered.

"Reth," he agreed.

"Crud," she said.

Chapter Three

The inn was built snugly to keep out the bitter cold of the northern winters. When the snow lay thick on the ground the inn was picturesque, nestled cozily in a small valley between the impressive mountains of northern Reth. Without the masking snow, the building showed the onset of neglect. It lay about halfway between the small village of Kestral and the slightly larger village of Torin.

The inn had been prosperous while the trappers of the Northlands were bringing down the thick pelts of the various animals that inhabited the northern mountain wilds. For many years merchants from all over flocked to Kestral each summer because it was as far south as the reclusive trappers would travel. But over the last several years the trappers had gradually grown fewer, and what furs they now brought to trade were hardly worth owning.

The North had always been uncanny: the kind of place that a sensible person stayed away from. The trappers traded stories of the Howlaas that screamed unseen in Iron! of the winter winds to drive men mad. They told of the Old Man of the Mountain who could make a man rich, or turn him into a beast with nothing but a whisper. Now there were new stories, though the storytellers were fewer. One man's partner disappeared one night, leaving his bedding and clothes behind although the snow lay thick on the ground. A giant bird was seen dying over a campsite where four bodies sat in front of a blazing fire. One trapper swore that he saw a dragon, though everyone knew that the dragons had been gone since the last of the Wizard Wars.

Without the furs, fewer and fewer merchants came. The inn grew less prosperous, depending more and more on the local farmers' night out. The once tidy yard was overgrown and covered with muck from horses and other beasts, some of them two-legged.

Inside, the greasy tallow candles sputtered fitfully on the rough-hewn walls and would have tent a soiled air to a far more presentable crowd than the one that occupied the inn. The chipped wooden pitchers that adorned the tables were rifled with some unidentifiable but undeniably alcoholic brew. The tabletops themselves were black with grease and other less savory substances.

Rushing here and there amid the few customers, a woman trotted blithely between tables refilling pitchers and obviously enjoying the fondles that were part of any good barmaid's job. She wasn't as clean as she could have been, but then neither were her customers. She wasn't as young as she claimed to be either, but the dim light was kind to her wrinkles and much was forgiven because of her wholehearted approval of the male species.

The only other woman in the room was wielding a mop across the uneven floor. It might have done more good if the water she was using hadn't been dirtier than the floor. The wet bottom of her skirt did as much to remove the accumulated muck as the mop. As she passed close to the tables she deftly avoided the casual hands that came her way. Not that many did. Most of the customers were regulars and were aware that if someone got too pushy he was liable to end with the bucket over his head for his troubles.

Dishwater-blonde hair was pulled into an irregular bun at the back of her neck. Her plain face was not improved by the discontented pout that held sway on her thin lips as she swung the mop.

Aralorn was discontented. A month after she'd finished in the Sorcerer's castle, Ren had called her into his office and told her that he was sending her to the middle of nowhere to keep an eye on the local inhabitants. The only reason that she'd been able to think of for her demotion to this kind of assignment was that Ren no longer trusted her; something that he had in common with most of the rest of Sianim. The story of what she had said to Talor had somehow become common knowledge and now even her closest friends avoided her as if she had a case of the pox. She'd accepted this assignment only because she'd thought that anything would be better than being an outcast.

After she'd spent the first day at the inn she'd decided that even the ae'Magi's castle had been a better option. At least there she hadn't been quite so bored.

Even though the business at the inn was brisk due to a high rate of alcoholism and infidelity among the people of both villages, not much happened. If the tavern had been located in the middle of a busy town she might have been resigned to staying there in hopes of picking up some information, even if her abilities were better utilized in a more perilous setting. However, the inn was mostly frequented by tinkers, drunken "family men," and occasionally by one very impoverished highwayman - the more skilled and ruthless of his kind having left for richer pastures.