Wolfsbane

EIGHT

“I hadn’t expected this to become an expedition,” muttered Aralorn softly to Sheen as she rocked back and forth with his exuberant stride. He was feeling frisky after his rest, and his steps were animated and quick. Wolf, gliding soundlessly beside the gray warhorse, gave her a sardonic look before turning his attention to the snowy path.

She shook her head, and said in a tone meant to carry to her escort, “It’s not as if Lambshold is riddled with outlaws. Even if it were, I am fully capable of taking care of myself.”

“See, Correy,” boomed Falhart from behind her and somewhat to the left, “I told you she’d like to have some company.”

“She’s been gone a long time. She’s probably forgotten where the temple is,” said Correy solemnly, behind her and to the right. “Dead howlaas aside, an itty-bitty runt like her needs her big brothers to protect her.”

Aralorn spun Sheen around on his hocks with enough speed to leave the stallion snorting and looking for the enemy. If she’d known what an overprotective streak the howlaa was going to stir up, she would never have let Correy know it was there. Let his stupid sheep get eaten by wolves. Protection she might have to put up with while she was here, but . . .

She pointed accusingly at Correy. “You promised no more jokes about my size.”

“Or lack thereof,” added Falhart smugly.

“No,” said Correy. “Falhart is the one who promised. Besides, I just commented on our size, right, Gerem? Just because your thirteen-year-old brother is a hand and a half taller than you doesn’t mean you’re small. We just happen to be taller than most people.”

“Especially itty-bitty runts like you,” added Falhart helpfully.

She shook her head at the three of them. Hart had come because he wanted to get out and ride. Correy, she thought, had come out of an honest desire to protect her. Gerem, she strongly suspected, had come to save her hulking brothers from their nasty, shapeshifting sister, itty-bitty runt or not.

“Men,” she snorted with mock disgust.

She pivoted Sheen until he faced their original direction and sent him off racing across the sun-sparkled snow, smiling when her brothers called out in protest at her head start as they picked up the race.

Ridane’s temple was a large structure nestled in an isolated valley. Aralorn remembered the “new” temple as a ruin heavily overgrown with ivy, but even under the snow, she could see that was no longer the case. Someone had been doing quite a lot of work, and the result was elegant and impressive. The snug little house built unobtrusively on one side was a new addition to the site as well.

Correy pointed to it. “When Father heard there was a priestess at the temple, he rode here by himself to talk with her. When he got back, he sent me out with a score of workmen to build her a house to live in.”

Falhart grinned at Aralorn. “Correy’s been really helpful around here. He took several days to clear the ivy and a week to scrub the lichen off the stone. He even got the old well working again.”

Before Correy could reply, a cheery “Who comes?” rang out from the cottage, and the door opened to reveal a woman bundled in a wool cloak dyed cherry red. She shut the door behind her and came out to greet them.

“My lords! And isn’t it a cold day to be out visiting, I’m thinking.” The priestess, for she could be no other, was close enough for Aralorn to see that her face matched the promise of her voice. A warm smile lit eyes the color of dark-stained oak, and it was aimed particularly at Correy.

Correy jumped lightly off his horse and took one of her hands in his, bringing it to his lips. “Any day with you in it, Lady, is as warm as midsummer’s eve.”

Hmm, thought Aralorn. Maybe Correy didn’t come to protect me after all.

Falhart shook his head as he dismounted also. In tones of apologetic despair, he addressed the priestess. “Smooth-tongued demon, isn’t he? I’m sorry, Tilda. It’s my fault. I taught him all I knew.”

“That took the better part of supper,” confided Correy without releasing the priestess’s hand. “And only that long because he was eating most of the time. It’s amazing the man ever managed to get married in the first place.”

Aralorn slipped off Sheen and dropped his reins to the ground.

“It’s obvious that he wasn’t teaching you manners,” Aralorn muttered in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “or you would have introduced me by now.”

“Forgive me, O Small-but-Sharp-Tongued-One,” said Falhart, taking Aralorn’s hand gallantly. “I have neglected my duties as older brother. Tilda, allow me to present my sister Aralorn. Aralorn, this is Tilda, priestess of the death goddess.”

“The shapeshifter,” murmured Tilda thoughtfully.

“The mercenary,” Aralorn murmured back.

They exchanged cheerful grins. Then the priestess turned to Gerem, standing quietly beside his mount.

“Gerem,” said the priestess, “well come. I haven’t seen you since last summer.”

Aralorn watched Gerem’s face closely, but apparently Nevyn had no objection to the death goddess, for Gerem’s smile was genuine, lighting his eyes as it touched his lips. “I’m sorry, Lady, but Correy made us stay home so he could have you to himself.”

“To what do I owe this visit? Would you like to come in?” Tilda gestured to her house.

Correy shook his head. “Today’s an official visit to the priestess, I’m afraid. Aralorn thinks Ridane might be able to shed some light on the matter with Father.”

The priestess lost none of her warmth but nodded understandingly. “I was not surprised when I was told he was not dead—Ridane had said nothing of his death to me. I don’t know if She knows any more than you do, but you may certainly ask. Would you go into the temple? I will meet you inside.”

Aralorn followed her brothers to the main entrance of the temple. Correy started to open the rough-hewn, obviously temporary door, then hesitated.

“Aralorn, I think it might be best if you leave your wolf outside,” he said.

“The wolf is one of the death goddess’s creatures,” said Gerem unexpectedly. “I doubt the goddess will object—though her priestess might.”

Wolf settled the matter by slipping through the narrow opening and into the temple.

Aralorn shrugged. “I suspect this temple has been infested by everything from rats to cows over the last hundred years. One animal more or less will make little difference.”

Correy shook his head but opened the door farther and allowed the rest of them to pass. As Aralorn moved by him, he caught her arm.

“Don’t be fooled by Tilda’s friendliness. The death goddess has a very real presence here. Be careful how far you choose to push Her.”

Aralorn patted him gently on the top of his head—she had to stand on her toes to do it. “Go teach Lord Kisrah how to cast a light spell, baby brother. I’m not as uncivilized as it sometimes appears.”

Brushing by him, she walked into the entrance hall. It was not very impressive as such things go. Although it was large enough for twoscore people to stand without feeling crowded, there was still a multitude of evidence of the temple’s long spell of neglect. High above, the vaulted ceiling showed white plaster and gaping holes where frescoed wolves and owls once frolicked. The floor had been pulled up and the usable flagstone piled to one side. On the other side, several large and crudely made benches lined the wall.

Though there was no sign of a fire, the room was remarkably warm. When the men began to toss their cloaks and gloves on the benches, Aralorn did the same.

As she dropped her gloves on top of her cloak, the creak of door hinges drew her attention to the far end of the room. The doors set in the wall were neither makeshift nor temporary; only years produced such a fine patina in bronze. They swung slowly open with a ponderousness in keeping with their hoary age.

Dressed in robes of black and red, Tilda stepped through the doorway onto the narrow platform set between the doors and the three stairs down to where Aralorn and her brothers waited. They approached the priestess with varying degrees of wariness, reverence, and enthusiasm. When Correy stopped several feet from the stairs, the rest of them did as well, leaving the priestess above them.

“You are come to ask about the Lyon.” The priestess’s voice had lost the hills accent and the warmth. Her earthy beauty was in no way faded, but it seemed out of place.

Aralorn thought it wasn’t Tilda speaking at all. A shiver ran through her. She could never have stood for such a thing; the last ae’Magi had come close to controlling her thoughts. Even as part of her shuddered in distaste, she felt a flash of awe—and satisfaction. This priestess was a priestess in truth; even her small store of green magic told her that much. She might really be able to help the Lyon.

“My father lies with the seeming of death,” said Correy, when no one else spoke. “Can you free him?”

She seemed to consider it a moment, and Aralorn held her breath. Finally, the priestess shook her head. “No. There are limits on the things that I control. This is no death curse, though he may die of it, and I can do little but speed his death. That I will not do without reason.”

“How long—” Aralorn’s voice cracked, and she had to try again. “How long before he dies of the magic?”

“A fortnight more will the spell hold stable. Until that time, he comes not unto me.”

“Two weeks,” said Aralorn softly to herself.

“As I said,” replied the priestess.

“Do you know of the Dreamer?” asked Aralorn, drawing surprised looks from her brothers.

The priestess turned her head to the side, considering.

“The creature that sleeps in the glass desert,” Aralorn clarified further.

“Ah,” said the priestess. “Yes . . . I had forgotten that name ...”

“Has it awakened?”

The priestess hesitated. “I would not know of it, unless it killed—and that was not its way. It incited others to do its killing.”

Falhart spoke for the first time. “Do you know anything about the farm that was burned to the ground?”

“Yes. Death visited there and was caught to pay the price of the Lyon’s sleep.”

“You mean,” said Gerem, with a tension that was strong enough to attract Aralorn’s interest, “something was killed there. That death was used in the magic that ensorcelled my father.”

The priestess nodded. “As I said.”

“Is Geoffrey ae’Magi dead, or does his spirit attend the living?” asked Aralorn.

“He is dead,” said Tilda. “But in the way of such men, much of him lives on in the hearts of those who loved him.”

She swayed alarmingly. Disregarding his wariness for the goddess in concern for the woman, Correy jumped up the short flight of stairs and wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Here, now,” he said, helping her sit on the floor.

“Did you get the answers you needed?” she asked. “She left without warning me. Usually, I can tell when She’s ready to leave, and I can give notice of the last question. Otherwise, you are left with the most important thing unanswered.”

“It was fine,” said Aralorn thoughtfully. She would rather have had a simple yes or no to her last question, but she hadn’t really expected as much help as they’d gotten. Usually priests and priestesses were much less forthcoming and a lot more obscure when they did tell you something.

“Aralorn”—Tilda got to her feet and shook out her robes briskly, obviously putting off whatever weakness the goddess’s visit had left her with—“I wonder if you would mind speaking with me in private for a bit.”

Since Aralorn had been debating how to phrase the same request, she nodded immediately. “Of course.” Last night she’d thought of another thing that Ridane could help her with.

Tilda walked down the stairs and, with a shooing motion, said, “Go along now and wait for us in the cottage. There are some fresh scones on the table, help yourselves.”

Aralorn’s brothers left without a protest. As he turned to close the door behind them, Gerem shot a calculating look at Aralorn. When she smiled and waved, he frowned and pulled the door shut with a bang that reverberated in the large, mostly empty room.

“He doesn’t trust me,” commented Aralorn, shaking her head.

“With Nevyn around, you’re lucky anyone does,” said Tilda in reply.

“For someone who lives several hours from the hold, you know an awful lot about my family.” Aralorn rubbed the itchy place behind Wolf’s ears.

The death goddess’s priestess grinned companionably and answered Aralorn’s observation. “My news travels fast—Correy’s new horse has a rare turn of speed.”

Aralorn returned her smile. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Hmm.” Tilda looked down and tapped her foot. “The goddess told me to ask you if you would change shape for me.”

Of all the things she could have asked, that was something Aralorn had not expected.

“Why?”

“You are a shapeshifter,” Tilda said. “A few weeks ago, I saw an animal that had no business being in the woods. A shapeshifter was the only explanation I could come up with, though, other than the fact that there hasn’t been a report of a howlaa around here for generations, the animal didn’t seem unnatural. I asked Ridane if I’d be able to tell the difference between a shapeshifter and a natural animal; She told me to ask you.” The priestess smiled. “Since you hadn’t been here in a long time, I did wonder. When you came here today, She reminded me again to ask you.”

“There was a howlaa,” said Aralorn. “It was killed yesterday, not far from the keep. But I don’t see any reason to refuse to change in front of you: a favor for a favor.”

“What is it you need of me?” asked Tilda warily.

Aralorn threaded her fingers through the hair on Wolf’s neck and cleared her throat. “I have this friend who needs to get married.”

Tilda’s jaw dropped for a moment. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

Not surprising, thought Aralorn. There hadn’t been a priestess of Ridane here for generations, and even when there had been, few people chose to be married in Her temple. Marriage bonds set by the goddess of death had odd consequences: Two people so bound could not live if one died.

Aralorn was counting on three things: that no one would see the marriage lines written in Tilda’s recording book and use them to trace Cain ae’Magison to Aralorn and her wolf; that Wolf and his unbalanced education wouldn’t know about the quirk of Ridane’s marriages; and that, afterward, when she told him, he’d want her life more than his own death.

“You can perform a marriage ceremony?” Aralorn asked.

“Yes,” Tilda said slowly. “I know the rites.”

Aralorn inclined her head formally. “Thank you.”

She turned to Wolf, who had been staring at her incredulously since she’d begun speaking.

“Well?” she said.

He glanced at Tilda for a moment, then swung his yellow gaze back to Aralorn.

Evidently deciding that Aralorn had already spoiled any chance to maintain his secrecy, he asked, “Why?”

Because I don’t want to lose you, she thought. That sounded right to her, so she said, “Because I don’t want to lose you, not ever. I love you.”

Her declaration seemed to mean something to him though he’d heard it before. He stood so still that she could barely see him breathe.

“It is too dangerous,” he said finally. “Someone will see the records.”

His voice was so sterile she could read nothing from it. A good sign, she thought. If he’d known what the marriage would mean, he’d have refused her outright. “Too dangerous” was no refusal, and he knew her too well to think that it was.

“Who would ask a temple of the death goddess for a record of marriage lines?” asked Aralorn reasonably. “And an avatar of a goddess surely won’t be caught up in the residue of your father’s spells.” She turned to Tilda, who was watching them with some fascination. “Would you agree to keep this marriage secret?”

Slowly, she nodded. “Barring that it violates any request of Ridane, yes.”

“I know you, Aralorn,” Wolf said in a low growl. “You do not fight in the regular forces because you don’t like the ties that bind such folk to each other. You work alone, and prefer it. You have many people who like you and some people you like, but no one who is truly a friend. You protect yourself with a shield of friendliness and humor.”

“I have friends,” she said, taken aback by his assessment; it had come from nowhere—and she thought he was wrong. She wasn’t the loner; he was.

“No,” Wolf said. “Whom did you tell when you came here?”

“I left a note for the Mouse.”

“Work,” he said. “You believed your father had died, and you told no one. What did the note to Ren say? That you’d been called home on family business? Did you tell him the Lyon was dead or leave it for his other spies?”

He was right. How odd, she thought, to see yourself through someone else’s view and discover a stranger.

“You fight to have no bonds to anyone,” he continued, an odd hesitation in his rough voice. “You don’t even come to visit your family because you fear the pain of those ties. But you would tie yourself to me anyway. Because you love me.”

She felt stripped naked and bewildered. “Yes,” she said, when he seemed to be waiting for some response.

“If you wish to marry me,” he said, “I am most honored.”

Tilda cleared her throat awkwardly. “Uhm. I’m not actually certain that I can marry someone to a wolf.”

Aralorn gathered her tattered defenses together and managed a grin. “I agree. Wolf?”

Wolf could no more have resisted putting on a show for the priestess than a child could resist a sweet.

Black mist swirled up to engulf him until he was merely a darker shadow in the blackness. Gradually, the mist rose to the height of a man before falling away to reveal Wolf’s human shape, complete with his usual silver mask.

Aralorn turned to Tilda, who had recovered from her initial surprise, and indicated Wolf. “May I introduce you to Cain, son of Geoffrey ae’Magi. But I call him Wolf, for obvious reasons.”

“Cain the Black,” whispered Tilda, horrified. She drew a sign in the air that glowed silver and green.

Wolf shook his head in disgust. “You can hardly think, whatever tales you have heard, that I would attack a priestess in her own temple. Not the brightest of moves.”

“Don’t mind him,” offered Aralorn. “He always responds to other people’s fear this way—not that the fear is always unwarranted, mind you, but, generally speaking, he’s harmless enough.”

“You want me to wed you to Cain the Black?” asked Tilda, sounding like she’d had one too many shocks.

“Look,” said Aralorn, stifling her impatience. “I’m not asking you to marry him. Do this for me . . . ask the goddess what She thinks of Wolf . . . Cain. Then decide what you would do.”

Tilda spared Wolf another wary glance. “I’ll do that. Wait a moment.”

She sat on the middle stair and bowed her head—without removing the sign she’d drawn. It hung in the air, powered by human magic rather than anything of the goddess’s. Tilda was mageborn. Aralorn wondered if she should add the priestess’s name to the list of mages Kisrah had requested.

“You’ve taken quite a risk,” murmured Wolf in a voice that went no farther than Aralorn’s ears. “What if the goddess decides I am so tainted by my early deeds that I should die to pay for them?”

Aralorn shook her head, not bothering to lower her voice. “I know my stories. The goddess has always had a weakness for rogues and reprobates—just like me.”

“You’re right,” agreed Tilda quietly, visibly calmer. Her sign faded quickly, without a motion on Tilda’s part. “She likes you—very much. If you would like to stand before me, the goddess of death will bind you tighter than the threads of life.”

“Take off the mask, please,” Aralorn asked him.

He slanted a glance at the priestess and flicked his fingers toward his face. The mask disappeared and left his face bare of scars. Aralorn touched his cheek.

The priestess stood on the middle step, and Wolf took Aralorn’s hand formally on his forearm. They faced Tilda together: Aralorn in her riding leathers, doubtless, she thought, smelling of horses; Wolf in his customary sartorial splendor, not a hair out of place.

“Who stands before me?” asked Tilda formally.

“Wolf of Sianim, who once was Cain ae’Magison.”

“Aralorn of Sianim, once of Lambshold.”

“To what purpose would you come?”

“To wed.” They answered together.

“For all things to come, either good or evil? Desiring no other mate?”

“Yes,” said Wolf.

“Yes,” agreed Aralorn.

Tilda took out a small copper knife and pricked her thumb so that a drop of blood formed. She pressed it to the hollow of Aralorn’s throat, then to Wolf’s.

“Life to life entwined as the goddess wills, so be it. Kiss now, and by this shall the deed be sealed.”

Wolf bent and touched his lips to Aralorn’s.

“Done!” The priestess’s word rang with a power that had nothing to do with magic.

“It shall be recorded,” said Tilda, “that Wolf of Sianim married Aralorn of Sianim on this date before Tilda, priestess of Ridane.”

“Thank you.” Wolf bowed his head.

From her perch on the stairs, Tilda leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. “We wish you nothing but the best.”

Wolf drew back, startled at the gesture. He started to say something, but shook his head instead. Without a word or an excess bit of magic, he shifted to his lupine form.

Aralorn looked at the priestess with full approval. “Now, do you still want me to shift for you?”

Tilda shook her head with a sigh. “It’s not necessary. I had no idea that he was anything other than a wolf.”

Aralorn laughed. “Neither did my uncle the shapeshifter—and we can usually tell our kind. Hold a moment.” She knew her change wasn’t as graceful or impressive as Wolf’s, but it was swift. She chose the icelynx because she’d been working on it and because someday she might have to spend some time at the temple: She didn’t want Tilda to be looking too hard at strange mice.

She arched her back to rid herself of the final tingles of the change. The shadows held fewer secrets in this form, but there were fewer colors as well. Staring at the priestess’s face, Aralorn could see a hint of satisfaction in Tilda’s eyes.

No, Aralorn thought, this should be a fair exchange of favors. She lay down on the floor and began tentatively to hide herself within the icelynx’s instincts. She was better with the mouse—and it was less dangerous that way, but she trusted that Wolf would stop her if she lost control of her creation. When she had done what she could to disguise herself, she waited for ten heartbeats, then allowed herself to reemerge.

Hiding so deeply always left her with a headache to remind her why she seldom went to such extremes. She stood up, shook herself briskly, then shifted back to human form.

“Well,” asked Aralorn, rubbing her arms briskly, “could you tell I was not the real thing?”

Tilda took a deep breath and loosened her shoulders with a rolling motion. “When you first changed, yes, but for a moment while you lay still, no.”

“I think then you should be all right. Most of the shapeshifters don’t care to get that deep into their creations,” said Aralorn. “There’s always the chance that the shaper might get lost in his shape.”

“Thank you,” said Tilda. “I found that to be most . . . enlightening.”

Me, too, thought Aralorn, who had learned that a cleric mage was going to be harder to get her mouse shape past than human mages were—but not impossible.

Correy edged his horse even with Sheen, but waited until Aralorn made eye contact before speaking. “We only have two weeks to break this spell.”

Aralorn nodded. “I think it’s time to really talk with the ae’Magi. I may know some things he doesn’t. Perhaps together we might think of something.”

“Why did you ask the question about the Dreamer?” queried Gerem, pushing forward until he was on Falhart’s off side. “It is just a story.”

Though her other brothers rode coursers, bred for speed and ease of gait, Gerem’s horse, like Sheen, was bred for war. Younger than Sheen, with a rich sorrel coat, there was something in the horse’s carriage that reminded Aralorn strongly of her own stallion. His nostrils were flared, and his crest bowed, though Gerem rode with a light hand—Sheen did the same when she was upset.

There was something about the deliberately casual tone combined with his horse’s agitation that planted an odd thought in her head. She sat back, and Sheen halted abruptly, forcing the men to stop also for politeness’s sake. Gerem appeared surprised at her reaction to his question, but she didn’t allow that to speed her tongue. Thirteen, she thought, Gerem is thirteen.

“How,” she said finally, “have you been sleeping at night lately? Have you been having bad dreams?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “And if I have?”

“Are they dreams of our father?” she speculated softly. “Perhaps you dreamed of his death before he actually fell?”

Gerem paled.

“Aralorn,” said Falhart sharply, “pick on someone up to your fighting weight. Anyone can have seemings.”

“Not seemings,” said Aralorn firmly, not removing her eyes from Gerem’s face. “They felt like reality, didn’t they?”

Without warning, Gerem slipped his feet out of his stirrups and dropped to the ground. He made it into the bushes before they all heard the sounds of his being violently ill.

Guilt caused Aralorn more than a twinge of discomfort as she dismounted as well.

Gerem reappeared looking, if anything, paler than before. “I thought it was a dream,” he said hollowly. “It had to have been—I don’t know anything about magic or how it works. But I dreamed of lighting a fire and making a great magic. It burned until I thought the flesh was coming off my hands. I thought it was a dream, but when I awoke, the farm had been torched, and there were ashes on my boots. I . . . think”—he stopped and swallowed heavily, then said it all in a rush—“I think I must have put the spell on Father.”

“Nonsense,” said Falhart bracingly.

“Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Correy.

“I think you might be right,” murmured Aralorn thoughtfully if unkindly. Then she continued quickly. “No, now don’t look at me like that. It certainly wasn’t his fault if he did. You asked me why I inquired about the Dreamer. This is the kind of thing it was supposed to be able to do. It seduced its victims into doing what it wanted, either by promising them something they wanted or by making them think they were doing something else.” She looked at their solemn faces. “It is said that the Tear of Hornsmar had a dream one night. A serpent attacked him in his bed. When he awoke, he turned to tell his mistress, Jandrethan, of his nightmare—which was still vivid in his mind. He found that she had been beheaded by his own sword, which he still clutched in his right hand.”

“But the Dreamer is just a story,” said Gerem. “Like—like—dragons.”

“Ah,” said Aralorn, swinging lightly back into the saddle. “But so are shapeshifters, my lad. And I am living proof that sometimes the stories have facts behind them.” She crossed her arms over the saddlebow and shook her head at him, but when she spoke, her voice was gentle. “Don’t take it to heart so, Gerem. Like enough there was nothing you could have done about it anyway.”

Though he remounted, Correy made no move to push on. “We have two weeks before Father dies. Kisrah will try his best . . . but there has to be something we can do. Aralorn, do you know any sorcerers who might be of help? If it is black magic that holds Father, perhaps a mage who has worked with such things can help.”

“You do know that it is a death sentence for any mage who admits to working such magic,” commented Aralorn without glancing at Wolf.

“Yes.” Correy hesitated. “I spoke with Lord Kisrah before we left this morning. He told me to ask you . . . He said that he thought you might know Geoffrey ae’Magi’s son, Cain.”

“He thought what?” asked Aralorn, as she damned the Archmage for voicing his suspicions out loud. If it became common knowledge she knew Wolf, they were in deep trouble.

“He thought you might know Cain the Black,” repeated Correy obligingly. “It is well-known that Cain worked with the darker aspects of magic, as Lord Kisrah has not. He suggested that we might be well-advised to call upon someone with more experience in these matters.”

“Been keeping bad company, little sister?” asked Falhart in deceptively gentle tones.

“Never worse than now,” she agreed lightly. Sheen snorted, impatient with the long stop, and she patted him on the neck, giving herself some time to pick her reply. “I have been communicating with someone who knows something about the dark arts. He assures me that he is doing all that he can.”

“Who—”

“Well enough,” said Correy, over the top of Gerem’s impatient question. “That’s all that we can ask.”

“Is it?” asked Gerem hotly. “I’ve been having other dreams too, dreams of Geoffrey ae’Magi’s son. Isn’t it in the least suspicious that the only mage known to work the black magic of old happens to associate with our sister when such magic strikes the Lyon of Lambshold? Doesn’t that bother anyone but me?”

Abruptly, Aralorn kneed Sheen, and the warhorse jumped forward until she could turn him to face Gerem with only inches between them, tapping the stallion’s neck when he nipped at the sorrel’s rump. “Yes, plague it, it does. And worries me as well, if you want to know the truth of the matter. Only one man knew that . . . Cain and I know each other—and as far as I know, he died before he could tell anyone.” I hope he’s dead, thought Aralorn. I hope so. “If he’s not dead, then we have a greater evil to face than some storytime creature.”

She drew in a deep breath, and the war stallion shifted beneath her—every muscle ready to fight at her command. “Plague it,” she said.

She took Sheen a safe distance from the other horses and tried to get a handle on her temper. “I’m sorry for that,” she said finally. “I know that we are all under a great deal of strain. It absolutely was not Cain who ensorcelled Father. He does not work with black magic any longer.”

“The ae’Magi,” said Correy in hushed tones. “That’s the evil man you’re talking about. He just died a couple of months ago.”

“Don’t be an ass, Correy,” said Falhart with a laugh. “He was the kindest of men . . . warmhearted and generous to a fault.”

Correy started to say something further when Aralorn caught his eye and shook her head strongly at him.

“You’re right, Falhart,” she said quietly. “He was a most unusual man.”

“A man of sterling character,” said Gerem. Unlike you, he meant. “I never met him, but I never heard anyone say a word against him.”

“Never,” agreed Aralorn solemnly.

“Never,” said Correy on an indrawn breath. “Not once. No complaints—everyone loved him.”

“Absolutely,” said Falhart seriously.

“I wonder,” said Correy thoughtfully, to no one in particular, “where his son picked up all the knowledge of black magic.”

Aralorn smiled at him approvingly before sending Sheen down the trail to Lambshold.

She took her time grooming Sheen, as did Correy his own horse. Falhart and Gerem left for their own business, and as soon as they were gone, Correy turned his horse out into its run and leaned against the wall near where Aralorn was running a soft cloth over Sheen’s dappled hindquarters.

“Tell me about the last ae’Magi,” he said, kneeling to pet Wolf.

Before she answered, she glanced casually around the stables, but there were no grooms around near enough to overhear. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re right. I’ve never heard anyone say a word against him. That’s just not natural.” With a last pat, he stood up. “I met him several times at court, and I liked him very much. I never talked to him—but I had this feeling he was a wonderful person even though I didn’t know him at all. It didn’t even strike me as odd until I thought about it today. And Hart ...”

“Yes?” asked Aralorn with a smile.

“He despises courtiers of any type—except those of us related to him by blood. He only tolerates Myr because the king is a wonderful swordsman. There is this as well: Falhart makes an exception for you and his wife, but he really doesn’t like magic. He prefers things he can face with his broadsword or quarterstaff. That attitude tends to carry over to sorcerers. Oh, he’s not as bad as say, Nevyn, about it—but, I’ve never heard him approve of any of them. Yet he considers the last ae’Magi a paragon among men? Hart has never mentioned anything in particular that Geoffrey did to inspire the kind of enthusiasm he showed today.”

“Geoffrey,” said Aralorn quietly, “was a Darranian. Did you know that?”

“No,” said Correy, with the same disbelief she had felt the first time she’d heard it.

“It twisted him, I think. You’ve seen what being a Darranian wizard did to Nevyn. Nevyn pretends he is not a mage; Geoffrey had to be the greatest. So he looked farther for his power than a less driven man might have.”

Wolf growled at her.

She smiled at him. “All right, so perhaps he was just evil.” Turning back to Correy, she said, “It doesn’t matter why he was the way he was, only that he was a black mage such as the world has not seen since the Wizard Wars.”

“The ae’Magi was a black mage? Why didn’t someone notice?” asked Correy.

“Hmm.” Aralorn began brushing Sheen again. “One of the first things we all learn about magic is that a mage cannot take over a man’s mind, that free will is stronger. That may be true of green magic, like mine, and all other forms of human magic—but it is not true of black magic. I saw the ae’Magi whip the skin off a man’s back while the man begged for more. The ae’Magi created a spell that made everyone his adoring slave. It protected him and gave him easy access to his victims. As he amassed more power, he extended the spell. Even now, his magic hasn’t faded entirely—as you saw with Falhart.”

“Why aren’t you or I afflicted?”

She shook her head. “About you, I don’t know for certain. Some people seemed a little immune to it, though most of them were mageborn. You have a priestess of Ridane for a lover, and that might help. Or it could simply be the fading of the spell.”

“So your shapeshifter blood protected you?”

She nodded. “Yes.” She hesitated, but decided the more people with as much information as was safe, the more likely it was that someone would figure out how to save the Lyon. “I suspect it might also have had something to do with my close association with another mage.”

“His son.”

She shrugged, then nodded.

“You said that you’re afraid Geoffrey is not dead?”

“All that was found in the ae’Magi’s castle were bits and pieces of Uriah leavings. It was impossible to know for certain that the ae’Magi’s remains were there. The bindings between the Archmage and the other sorcerers were broken, and the wizard’s council assumed that meant Geoffrey was dead. But who can say for certain?”

“If he was not killed,” said Correy slowly, “would he have any reason to look for you?”

Aralorn nodded. “He wanted to conquer death, and he thought he could do it through his son. He knows I am . . . a friend of his son—I, Aralorn of Lambshold, not just of Sianim. He might also have a touch of vengeance in his motivation. We—ah—had something to do with his untimely demise.”

Correy gave her a small smile. “If he’s not dead, it would be his almost demise.”

“Point to you,” she agreed.

“You think he is responsible for what happened to Father,” said Correy slowly. “That he set Father up as bait, knowing you would go to Cain for help.”

“I think that if he were alive, that is what he would do, yes.”

“Do you think he is alive?”

“No.” She sighed, rolling her shoulders to relieve the strain of reaching Sheen’s back. Short people should have short horses. “I hope not.”

“Kisrah knew,” said Correy slowly. “He knows about you. Did the last ae’Magi tell him?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Probably. Or he scryed it somehow.”

“Was it Kisrah who ensorcelled Father?” he asked.

“I think . . . I think it was Kisrah and Gerem. I think someone used both of them to set a trap that neither was responsible for.” That sounded right and fit with Kisrah’s actions.

“Someone like Geoffrey ae’Magi.”

She nodded. “He’s not the only possibility.” But he was—unless a legendary, possibly fictitious, creature had begun to stir again. Unfortunately, the ae’Magi’s surviving a Uriah attack without use of his magic was more likely than the emergence of a creature who’d been trapped under a sea of glass for ten centuries.

“Have you really asked for Cain’s help?” asked Correy. “Knowing it could be a trap set for him?” He hesitated. “Knowing what he is?”

She decided that defending Wolf to her brother could be put off for another time, so she simply said, “He’s doing what he can.”

She set the cloth down on a rough bench, took up a comb, and began to work on Sheen’s tail. The stallion jerked his tail irritably, twitching it halfway out of her hand before resigning himself to his fate with a sigh.

Aralorn had been going back through the information she’d given her brother and regretted some of it.

“Correy, for your own safety, don’t talk to anyone about the ae’Magi. His spell is waning, but it is by no means gone—most especially in connection with people he associated closely with, like Lord Kisrah. And I would appreciate it if you would try to keep Hart and Gerem from bandying Cain’s name about, for my safety. There are any number of mages who would like to have something to use against him, someone he cares about—like me.”

“You care about him, too,” said Correy.

“Yes,” she agreed without looking at Wolf. “I do.”

“I will try to keep the others quiet,” Correy promised. He patted her on the shoulder and walked down the wide aisle between stalls. As he left, the wind, which had been still all day, flitted through the open stable doors in a ragged gust.

Death is coming . . . Death and madness dreaming . . .

“Aralorn,” said Wolf sharply, coming to his feet.

She shivered, and, knowing he couldn’t hear the screaming shrieks, gave him a half smile. “I’m all right. It’s just the wind. Wolf, do you still think that talking to Kisrah is a good idea?”

“I don’t know that we have any other option,” he replied. “If he can tell me what spell was used to bind your father, I may be able to unweave it. It’s obvious Gerem, if he’s had any training at all, barely knows how to call a light spell; he couldn’t tell me what he did even if you could persuade him to talk to me. Kisrah will know what his part in the spell was. Otherwise, two weeks doesn’t give me a lot of time to prowl through old books for an answer. Whether Kisrah knew it before your father was ensorcelled or not, he obviously knows that I am involved with you. Talking with him won’t make matters any worse.”

“You don’t think that he’s the impetus behind this?”

“He could be,” he said. “But he has information we need—and now that I’m rested, I can handle Kisrah if he tries anything.”

“Then I’ll go look for him as soon as I finish with Sheen,” she said, and went back to work.

Grooming was soothing and required just enough thought that she could distract herself from the worry that the Lyon would gradually fade into death no matter what they could do, and that the possibility the ae’Magi (and no other man held that title in her heart of hearts for all that it now belonged to Kisrah) was still alive lingered. Most of all, she could allow the work to keep her from the confession she was beginning to dread more than all the other evils the future could hold: How was she going to tell Wolf that she’d married him to keep him alive? It had seemed a good idea at the time. However, she’d had a chance to think it over. Would he see it as another betrayal?

Sheen stamped and snorted, and Aralorn coaxed her hands to soften the strokes of the comb.

“Shh,” she said. “Be easy.”