Traitor's Masque by Kenley Davidson

yawn, she pushed half-heartedly at the soft nose that had been snuffling curiously in her hair. Too late she realized that Theron was grazing peacefully a short distance away and that the nose she had shoved was brown, rather than gray.
    Trystan turned, looked up and decided she was still dreaming when her sun-dazzled eyes finally made out the enigmatic face of her strange companion from several weeks past.
    For a few moments they only stared at each other. Trystan, at least, felt oddly unsure of herself, but bizarrely relieved by the sudden thought that at least he had not been just a dream.
    “I was beginning to wonder if I had only dreamed you.” The man’s voice startled her. Had she spoken her thought out loud? His dismount was a tired, awkward motion that made her frown, just a little. He appeared as though he had barely slept since they parted company at the Tree.
    “You look awful.” The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them. Aghast, she put her face in her hands and groaned. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” she muttered into her palms.
    The man only laughed, and the sound was as wonderful as her memories of it. “The truth can be a terrible thing,” he agreed complacently. “I probably look even worse than that. You, however, look much the same as I remember, aside from…” He stopped, and looked a bit embarrassed. “Your hair,” he said finally. “It’s beautiful.”
    Trystan blushed in horror and jumped to her feet as she remembered her unbound hair, and hastily began to plait its reddish-brown strands back into her customary braid. “I forgot,” she apologized. “I hadn’t really thought I would meet anyone out here today.”
    “I would have come back every day, if I could,” was her companion’s simple reply as he leaned back against the wall. “Unfortunately, only a very small piece of my time can be called my own. I’ve managed to keep this morning free each week until now, much as my keepers resist.”
    Trystan filed that away as a possible clue to his identity. He spoke so well, she had assumed him educated, but young noblemen rarely thought of their time as belonging to anyone but themselves. Perhaps he was not a man of leisure after all. And perhaps, if he had so little time to be alone, he might prefer her elsewhere.
    “I can be getting along,” she offered tentatively, “if you would prefer not to share this, um… hill.” Even as the words came out she felt ridiculous. But even more ridiculous would have been the assumption that he had sought her company.
    “If you find my society so distasteful,” he offered with a wry smile, “I will by no means detain you. But I confess I had hoped to speak with you again, if the admission does not terrify you.”
    Relieved and absurdly pleased, Trystan smiled back. “I am terrified by very little,” she told him, “except perhaps embroidery.”
    Her companion looked abashed. “I fear I must disclose a shocking truth,” he said solemnly. “You see, my only true joy in life lies in embroidery.” When Trystan burst out laughing, he added, “Someday, I even hope to discover whether the art has a purpose beyond drawing blood and driving young women to madness.”
    “I believe they tell us it improves our character, though I fear it did the opposite for mine,” she admitted. “I clearly recall burying more than one sampler behind the stable and claiming pixies had taken it.”
    “Pixies?” The man seemed impressed. “I wish I’d thought of that when it was time for lessons. Though I fear my tutors would have been less than pleased to discover my history texts at the bottom of a midden.”
    He’d had tutors? That, at least, was indisputable proof that he was from at least some degree of wealth. Perhaps his father was a successful businessman.
    “I’m afraid it didn’t help much anyway,” Trystan admitted ruefully. “As punishment I was forced to embroider handkerchiefs, which is much worse. My