Masques (Sianim #1)(36)

"Good," she said when he had completed the maneuvers. "Now at full speed." He blocked and blocked, but his strike was slow and careful, lacking the power that he should have been able to put behind the blow. Aralorn stepped into it and inside. With a deft grip and twist, she tossed him over her head and into the grass. Before he had a chance to move, she had her knee on his chest and his sword arm twisted so that it would hurt him; maybe enough that he would fight her when she let him up.

There had been a collective gasp from her audience when she tossed the farmer on his back. The move looked more impressive than it was, especially since he easily outweighed her by a hundred pounds.

Stanis, who was watching, put a finger on his chin and said, "I wouldn't pin 'im that way, Aralorn. Two coughs from a cat and I'd be out of it if it'd been me you caught."

Aralorn raised an eyebrow and let Traven up. Stanis had been born to a group of traders, traveling clans no better than they should be. It was very possible that he had a few good tricks up his sleeve.

"'Right, then. Come on, Stanis," she invited.

He did. She must have pinned him a dozen times, but he kept slipping out of her grasp. Drawn by the noise, Myr quit his bout to come and watch too. Soon the whole crowd was cheering for Stanis as he broke away again and again. Aralorn quit finally and raised her hands in surrender.

"Magic?" she queried Stanis as she shook his hand.

Stanis shook his head, gave her a wary look, then grinned and nodded. "Most of 'em are easier with magic, but there's a few tricks that the Clansmen know if ya wanna learn 'em."

So Stanis took a turn at teaching. He must have been a very good thief, and doubtless there were a few magistrates who were looking for him; though, thought Aralorn with a smile, they'd have a hard time keeping him.

When it was time to dig latrines, sew, or hunt, Aralorn watched over the children. It was nice to have a ready audience who believed every word that came out of her mouth, at least until they got to know her better. Keeping thirty-odd mischievous magic-loving tots out of trouble kept her from getting restless while Wolf was away. It also kept her from latrine duty.

* * *

THE SNOWSTORM STRUCK WITHOUT WARNING TWO NIGHTS later. Within moments the temperature dropped below freezing. Without a tent to cover her, since she was still sleeping in Wolf's camp, Aralorn woke as the first few flakes fell. Instincts developed from years of camping had her gathering her bedding before she was really awake. Even so, by the time she had left Wolf's chosen spot and made it into the main camp, most of what she carried was already covered with snow.

At the camp, Aralorn found that Myr, efficient as ever, was shuffling people who had occupied inadequate tents to the few that looked like they would hold up in the storm. Seeing her trudge in, Myr motioned her toward his own tent.

She found it full of frightened people. The storms of the North were legendary. Although their camp was protected from the brunt of the storm by the steep walls of the valley, the angry howl of the wind was so loud that it made it difficult to hear.

Evaluating the situation, Aralorn casually found a place for her blankets, lay down and closed her eyes, ignoring the slight dampness left on her bedroll after she had brushed the snow off. Her nonchalance seemed to work, because everyone quieted down and they were mostly asleep when Myr returned to his bed.

By morning the worst of the storm was over, but the snow was knee deep, and in places it had drifted nearly waist-high.

Aralorn was helping with the fire when Myr found her and pulled her aside. "I'm no magician, but I do know that this is a freak storm. Feel the air. It's already getting warm, the snow is starting to melt. The storms come suddenly here, I know - but this is more like the spring storms. The winter storms hit and don't ease for weeks. Did you notice anything unnatural about it?"

Aralorn shook her head and sneezed; sleeping in damp bedding wasn't the best thing for one's health. "No, I wondered about that myself, so I tried to check. I couldn't find any trace of human magic in the storm - although there was something strange about it, I'll grant you." She shrugged. "If the ae'Magi was causing that storm, he was trying to hide it, and he could certainly do that, at least from me - although storms aren't something that human magicians are generally good with. The trappers who hunt these parts for furs would tell you that it was the Old Man of the Mountain who caused the storm."

There was a brief silence; then Myr, who was beginning to know her, smiled slowly. "I'll take my cue. Who is the Old Man of the Mountain?"

She grinned cheerfully at him. "The trappers like to tell a lot of stories about him. Sometimes he is a monster who drives men mad and eats them. Other times he is a kindly old man who does things that kindly old men can't do - like change the weather. He is invited to every trapper's wedding or gathering, and a ceremonial place is laid for him when the trapping clans meet in their enclave each year to decide which trapper goes where."

"Is it just a story or is there such a person?" he asked.

Aralorn shrugged. "I don't know. I've met trappers who swear that they have met him. But I've never seen the story in any book. No human magician could perform the feats that he is credited with, and I've never seen a shapeshifter wield that kind of power - most of them concentrate on the little stuff. Great feats are not their strong point. There are damn few other wielders of natural magic, and none of them would be inclined to live in the mountains - or have any dealings with humans."