Masques (Sianim #1)(18)

Myr smiled. "Yes, I see. Welcome then, Lady. I invite you to join our small camp." Myr gave a short bow of his head, which she appreciated as exactly the correct height for a male sovereign to give in polite invitation or acceptance to a female who was neither his subject nor fellow royally.

She in her turn, dressed in the dead son of the innkeeper's clothes, gave him the exact curtsy she would have given him as her father's daughter. Rethian nobility overdid manners, so she knew he'd catch the subtle difference.

He did. "Who are you?"

She gave him an apologetic smile as she pulled at the uncomfortably tight front of the tunic. "Lady Aralorn of Lambshold."

"One of Henrick's daughters." Myr's voice carried a hint of incredulity.

Aralorn nodded, smiling apologetically. "I know, I don't look much like him, do I? He didn't think so either. I was quite a disappointment to him." She rolled up the sleeves until she could see her hands again.

"No, that's not what I mean," said Myr. "I've seen you in court - a long time ago. You're his oldest child?"

She laughed, "No, oldest daughter, but I have a brother a year older than I am. We two are the illegitimate get of youthful folly. My older brother's mother was a household maid and my mother was a shapeshifter who seduced poor father in the nearby woods. With fourteen of us I can see where you could have trouble keeping us straight. My siblings are all copies of their father, rather unfortunate for my sisters, but my brothers are all considered handsome."

She startled a laugh out of Myr at her description of her family. He'd met several of her sisters as well. They were all quite beautiful, golden like their father: like their father they overtopped most men by a good handspan. "How did you end up with Sianim?"

She tilted her head, thinking about how to best frame a reply. "I am too much my father's daughter to be content with sewing a dress or learning how to converse. He taught me swordplay with my brothers because I asked him. When it came time for me to go to court it was obvious to both him and me that as a Lady I was hopeless. He gave me his own horse, armed me, and sent me on my way." As she talked, she worked at rolling up her pant legs. Finally she cut the bottom off with her dagger.

"'Somehow that sounds like the Lyon of Lambshold. He's the only man I know who is unconventional enough to do that." Myr shook his head.

Straightening up to her unimpressive height, Aralorn continued with a grin. "He said, if memory serves, that if no one had the nerve to laugh in his face when he was addressed as the 'Lyon of Lambshold' no one would say anything about an absent daughter."

"If you are through talking, it might be best if we left for camp." The harsh voice was distracted, and Wolf's eyes focused on some distant point.

"Someone coming?" Myr changed in an instant from courtier to warrior.

Wolf grunted and then said, "Not here, but near enough that we ought to move out."

Aralorn left them to their packing and ducked through the trees to grab her horse. As she checked the girth she muttered to Sheen, "I wonder what mischief our friend. Wolf, has been up to; and for what purpose."

Chapter Four

When Aralorn awoke it was still dark. She slipped out through the tent opening, moving quietly to avoid disturbing the two women who had shared their quarters with her. She retied the crude flap so the cold early morning air would stay outside.

Most of the tents in the camp were makeshift. Several were little more than a rug stretched over a stick or rope in true field-soldier style. The only tent in the camp worthy of the name belonged to Myr, who shared it uncomplaining with a number of the smaller children.

As she passed Myr's tent, near the firepit, she gave the dragon embroidered on the side a respectful nod, but it glared balefully at her anyway. The flickering light of the lire gave the illusion of life to the green-gold eyes.

Also near the firepit was one of the few wooden structures in the camp. The kitchen was little more than a three-sided shed, but it kept the food dry. The camp cook was already up, chopping something by lantern light, but he stopped long enough to give Aralorn a look no more friendly than the dragon's had been. Aralorn grinned cheerfully at him and kept on her way.

The camp was located in a small dale, no bigger than the largest of the riding arenas in Sianim, and lay half a day's ride north of the Rethian border. It was long and narrow, with a stream in the middle that she suspected would cover a much larger area in the spring when the top layer of snow melted off the mountain peaks. As it was, the ground near the stream was marshy and made soft, slurping sounds when she walked over to take a drink and throw water on her face.

The tents were all in the eastern end of the valley near the only obvious trail down the steep, almost clifflike sides. Those sides, heavily covered with brush on the top, were the strongest defense that the camp could have, rendering it almost invisible to anyone not already in the valley.

By the simple expedient of running a split-rail fence across the valley the narrow way, the western end had been turned into a pasture for most of the livestock - two goats, four donkeys, several horses and a scrawny cow. It was toward this part of the valley that Aralorn headed.

Knowing how well Wolf liked people, she thought that he would be as far from the tents as he could - although she couldn't see him anywhere in the dale. As she neared the pasture she was welcomed with a soft whinny. Sheen, only slightly inconvenienced by the soft leather hobble that bound his front legs, bounced up to her to get his nose rubbed. She'd hobbled him outside the pasture so that the owners of the two mares didn't end up with unwanted foals. He followed her for a while before wandering off to forage.