Wolfsbane

NINE

It wasn’t as hard to find Kisrah as she had thought it might be. He was seated on a bench in the main hall, talking to Irrenna.

“Truthfully, I don’t know what can be done, Irrenna. I have to find the wizard who initiated the spell—and it’s no one I’ve ever dealt with before.” He yawned.

“We kept you up half the night with our problems,” said Irrenna apologetically.

He took her hand and kissed it. “Not at all, Lady. I have been having troubled dreams lately. Perhaps I’ll go up and rest.”

His words stopped Aralorn where she was, and an icy chill crept over her.

Aralorn had been sleeping just fine. Her own dreams had stopped when Wolf had come back to guard her sleep.

She’d been assuming that the dreaming had stopped because the one giving all of them dreams had either given up on her, changed his mind, or been kept out by some stray effect of Wolf’s power. What if it was something simpler than that? What if the dream sender was detectable in some way? Maybe he had stopped because he was worried Wolf would notice what he was doing.

Perhaps, she thought, perhaps it might be better to watch what happened when Kisrah was asleep before she spoke to him. She turned on her heels and left before anyone saw her.

“Why aren’t we chasing down Kisrah?” asked Wolf mildly.

She glanced around hurriedly, though she knew Wolf wouldn’t have said anything if anyone could have overheard.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I want to go spend some time with Father.”

Aralorn crouched on the rosewood wardrobe behind a green vase in the room Kisrah had been given. She’d spent most of the day avoiding the Archmage. She didn’t want to talk to him until after she’d done a little bit of spying.

When she told Wolf what she planned, he’d paid her the compliment of not arguing: Or at least he restrained himself to a few pithy comments about certain people’s rashness leading them into hot water. She’d left him to stew in her room, wolves being somewhat more unexpected guests than mice were. And, although he’d tried other shapes, the only one he could hold on to reliably was the wolf. If she didn’t see anything in Kisrah’s room, then she and Wolf could hide Wolf from her brother Gerem while he slept. Not even Wolf could conceal himself from the Archmage with magic.

She still hadn’t told him what she’d done by marrying him. She didn’t fear his anger—but she found that the thought of hurting him was painful. She’d have to do it soon, though. The whole thing would be worse than useless if he managed to get himself killed before she told him that his death would mean hers, too: There was one more reason than the obvious one that people didn’t lightly ask Ridane’s priests to officiate in weddings.

Her hiding place wasn’t ideal. It gave her a clear view of the bed while leaving her well concealed behind the vase, but there was nothing else to hide behind. If Kisrah saw her, she would be forced to run in the open.

The distance wouldn’t have been a problem if he hadn’t been a mage. Wizards had rather abrupt methods of dealing with mice, methods that could leave her no time to run.

It was as Aralorn’s vivid imagination came up with unusual and painful ways in which a wizard could dispose of a mouse that Kisrah came into the room. And, of course, if she managed to get herself killed—Wolf would die, too. The irony of that situation didn’t escape her. She sat very still in the shadow of the vase, not even allowing her itchy whiskers to twitch.

Kisrah seemed to be taking longer to get to bed than he needed to: tidying up the already painfully neat room, refolding an extra quilt at the end of his bed, and messing around in the wardrobe. As if, thought Aralorn hopefully as she cowered behind her vase, he was dreading facing his dreams.

Without his public mask, he looked even more tired than he had earlier. In the harsh illumination of the light spell he’d summoned rather than lighting the candles, he looked ten years older than he was.

“Gods, what a mess,” he said tiredly. As he was staring at the perfectly tidy bed when he spoke, Aralorn assumed he wasn’t talking about the room.

He stared at the bed a moment longer, then ran a hand through his artfully styled hair. With a sigh, he stripped out of his flamboyant clothes, leaving on only a pair of purple cotton half trousers.

Clothing in hand, he approached Aralorn’s chosen hiding place. The wardrobe swayed slightly as he opened the doors and hung his garments, and Aralorn wished that it were summer so there would at least have been some flowers in the vase to offer more cover. A taller wardrobe would have been nice, one that didn’t leave the top level with Kisrah’s gaze. She didn’t so much as twitch a whisker until he turned away.

A fire had been lit shortly after Aralorn had arrived in the room, and some of the winter dampness that plagued old stone buildings had left the air. Kisrah pulled a chair near the fireplace in front of the merry flames.

She gave a relieved sigh and tried not to stare at him; some people, most of the mageborn, could feel it when they were the center of attention. He gazed deeply into the rose-and-orange light of the burning pine and never turned his head toward the vase with the mouse settled behind it.

In spite of her precarious position, the warmth of the fire had Aralorn half-asleep herself before Kisrah finally pulled back the bedclothes, climbed between the muslin sheets, and put out his magelight. She shook herself gingerly, careful that her claws made no sound on the polished wood.

The lack of Kisrah’s magelight was no handicap to her rodent eyes—the dying embers of the fire provided more than enough light to see with. The rhythms of Kisrah’s breathing slipped slowly into sleep. Aralorn waited intently.

She couldn’t have pinpointed exactly what first alerted her to the second presence in the room. It could have been a slight sound or the fur on her back ruffling as if a chill wind had blown into the room, though the air remained still and comfortable.

She took her eyes from the bed in time to see a pale mist settle before the fire. Slowly, it condensed into a familiar form. The voice was so soft she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t been so close . . . perhaps she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t met the howlaa. It felt like that, sounds heard without her ears.

You were not to come here, Kisrah. Someone will connect you with the deed, then where will you be? Aralorn trembled with utter terror as she watched Wolf’s presumably dead father. His lips did not move, though she heard his voice clearly.

What have you done, my old friend? You said the spell was for Cain, to hold him without harm. It was Kisrah who spoke. She dared a glance at the bed, but Kisrah lay unmoving; to all appearances he was sleeping deeply.

And who would have used it on him? I was the most powerful mage in the world, and he destroyed me. Which of my friends should I have sent against him? You would have done it had I asked—but you would not have succeeded. Geoffrey’s voice was soft. Should I have let him kill you, too? I did what I had to. This way, no one is harmed.

There was a short pause, then Kisrah said, Why black magic? And why bring others into it, to blacken their souls as well?

If it were not black, any mage could unwork the spell. As for the others—Geoffrey’s voice softened with understanding —did you not try and unwork the spell? If it had been only one, anyone could have freed the Lyon. The time is not yet met for him to awaken. Have patience, all will be well.

Aralorn tried to make herself even smaller without moving so much as a hair. She very much would rather that neither of the participants in this bizarre conversation realized that there was a mouse listening to every word.

The Lyon will die if something is not done soon. She has no intention of bringing Cain into this, or she would have done it long since. No good can come of this, Geoffrey. Evil begets only evil. The magic that I, and whatever other poor benighted fools you chose to aid you wrought here, is evil. I should not have done it.

Geoffrey’s voice was harsh. You think my son is so stupid that you could snare him any other way? I searched for him fruitlessly for years without catching him—because I could not find the right bait. Now I have it. Don’t fret yourself, he’s here with her. Cain’s mother was a shapeshifter. She gave him the ability to use green magic, something I failed to recognize until it was too late because of his talent with human magic. The mixture proved volatile—too volatile for his sanity. At least I hope he is insane . . . that is easier to accept than flesh of my flesh being so given to evil.

Geoffrey paused as if putting aside an old grief. Aralorn’s face twisted into a snarl, an expression that sat oddly on the mouse’s face as she traded terror for rage at last. She put aside all thoughts of an ancient evil, satisfied that her enemy was Geoffrey ae’Magi. She and Wolf must have failed. This is Geoffrey ae’Magi. He twists and manipulates with a skill I might envy if he did not use it as he does.

Kisrah did not respond, and at last the phantom continued. Don’t be so impatient. I told you he would come. He might even be here already. I’ve seen him take the shape of animals before. Have you looked closely at Aralorn’s wolf?

With those words, Geoffrey’s form dissolved. As it left the room, Lord Kisrah drew in a deep breath that was more of a gasp and sat up, clutching his head and grimacing in pain. He got up slowly, like an old man, and stirred the coals in the fire before setting a log in the grate. It was a very long time before he went back to sleep, and Aralorn didn’t move until he did.

A very cautious mouse crept out of the room at last, shivering and wary.

Wolf, in human form and wearing his mask, opened the door and let Aralorn into her room before she had a chance to knock. Startled, she looked quickly around to make certain there was no one to see him before stepping through the door and pushing it closed behind her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked after a brief look at her face. “What frightened you?”

She stepped closer to him and pressed against his warm chest. She felt him stiffen momentarily, as he still did at unexpected touches, then he relaxed and pulled her more tightly to him. She took a deep breath, feeling her panic abate.

She stepped back to see his face.

“Thanks, I needed that.” She hesitated. “I saw . . . Wolf, it was your father. I was watching Kisrah sleep when your father materialized in the room.”

He didn’t appear surprised, just tugged her closer again and bent to rest his head on top of hers as she told him the whole of what she had seen.

“He has to be dead,” she whispered. “He has to be, but I swear to you this was him.”

“Are you certain it was he?”

An illusion? Aralorn examined her memory. Illusionists could not create an actual double any more than a shapeshifter could take on the appearance of a specific person. There were too many fine details to be missed—a mole behind the earlobe, the slant of a smile, the swing of a walk.

“Not unless it was created by an illusion master who knew your father very well,” she said finally. “Every nuance of speech or expression was Geoffrey’s.” She frowned. “Though he didn’t really speak. I would say that it was mindspeaking, but I’ve never been able to send or receive by mind. I understood everything he said—they said—quite clearly.”

“Dreamspeaking is different,” replied Wolf. “If Kisrah was asleep, probably it was a dreamspeaker—which was one of my father’s odder talents.”

“Dreamspeaking as in dreamwalking?” asked Aralorn. “It can be part of the same gift. Did my father have a scent?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, shocked at the inane . . . Wait, not such an inane question after all. “Allyn’s toadflax, I never thought of that. I don’t remember ...” A mouse’s sense of smell was not as good as a wolf’s, but it was better than a human’s.

“Father had a scent that he always wore: cloves and—”

“—cinnamon,” she broke in. “I remember. I would have noticed that. I don’t think he had any scent at all.”

“Dreamwalker then,” said Wolf. She couldn’t tell what he thought about it. “Though it’s a rare talent, my father was not the only dreamspeaker among the wizards. Whatever you saw was not a real person but a similitude. Any dreamwalker who knew my father well could produce it.”

“So it isn’t your father,” she said with a rush of relief.

“I didn’t say that.” Wolf sighed and tightened his hold. “Dreamwalking is one of the two or three things that wizards are supposed to be able to do for a while after they die.”

“There are a lot of dead wizards around?” Aralorn asked.

Wolf shrugged. “I’ve never seen any. There are stories, but no one really believes them.” He hesitated. “It’s just that if any wizard would come back from the dead, it would be my father.”

“So this is either your father or another wizard who knows a lot about your father.”

“If Kisrah were a little better at self-deception,” said Wolf, loosening his hold, “it could even have been him. I never heard that dreamwalking was one of his abilities, but most of the great mages have several.”

“Kisrah thought your father was a good man,” she returned.

“My father’s magic was powerful enough to reach Sianim,” he said. “Certainly he’d have put stronger spells on any wizard close enough to smell black magic. On his own, Kisrah is pretty observant: He’d know if he was causing my father’s appearances in his dreams.”

“I was hoping for the Dreamer.” Aralorn stepped away and began undressing.

“You just think the Dreamer would make a better story,” he said.

She frowned at him. “What’s the use of going to all this work if you can’t brag about it when you’re through? If it is your father, we have to be quiet about it.” She took a step nearer to him, then said suspiciously, “If I didn’t know you better, I would say that you’re cheerful. You are never cheerful around the subject of your father.”

“My father isn’t a cheery topic,” he said. “But whether we are dealing with him, some other wizard, or a creature out of one of your stories is something that can wait. I think I have a solution to our more immediate problem. I’ve been doing some thinking while you were gone, and I’ve remembered a few things. If we can get Kisrah and Gerem’s cooperation, I think I can break the spell on your father.”

She stilled. “Are you sure?”

“My dear Lady, nothing’s certain in this life, but it should work.”

“What about the possibility of Geoffrey’s attacking you?”

“If Kisrah and Gerem are willing to cooperate, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

He sounded very certain, but so had Geoffrey.

“Kisrah’s not very happy with what’s been done to my father, or his own part in it,” she said. “But convincing him that Geoffrey is . . . was . . . is—Plague it!—that Geoffrey was-and-is not a good man won’t be easy.”

“Hmm,” Wolf said. “I think I might have an idea or two on that score.”

He was, she noticed, dividing their problem into two: save her father and deal with his. That he believed her father’s ensorcellment was solvable was beyond good. She could feel herself relax into belief in his ability. That he was ignoring his father was less good. She worried that it was less confidence in his own skills than it was indifference to danger to his life. It was time to let him know what she had done.

“Wolf,” she said, “I—”

“I know,” he said with a wicked smile glinting in his eyes. “We’ve done enough work for now.” The smile left his eyes, and his hands traced her face.

“I’ve never had a family before,” he said in wonder. “Not really. It feels so strange to belong to you and have you belong to me.”

She looked up at him and opened her lips, but she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t tell him that she’d married him to force him to take care of himself, not when it obviously meant so much more to him than that. Come to think of it, it meant a lot more than that to her as well. It was just that . . . Wolf had belonged to her for a long time in a way that tied them far more than any goddess could.

She reached up and tugged at his mask, and he let it fall into her hands.

“Don’t hide from me,” she said.

Dropping the cold silver false face on the floor, she pulled his head down so she could kiss him fully.

Wolf held her while she slept, and smiled. His wife was a manipulative minx; but then, he’d known that for a long time. The difference between her and his father was that she manipulated people for their own good—or at least what she perceived to be the greater good. He wondered when she’d break down and tell him.

How could she think that he wouldn’t know what she’d done? As soon as the priestess placed the blood-bond between them, he’d realized what it was, had known what Aralorn had tried to do. He was not a well-trained mage in most areas, but black magic he knew well. A blood-bond was well within his area of expertise.

He sent a caress through the tie the death goddess had placed between them, and Aralorn sighed, shifting against him.

He could sever it when he needed to. He’d tell her that after she managed to confess her deed—he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her a little and teach her a lesson about trying to manipulate him as she did the rest of the world.

“If you had known how to find me, you would have come to me when you were told your father had died,” he said softly, and, remembering her face when he’d shown up at Lambshold, he knew it was true. How odd that someone loved him. That Aralorn loved him.

He pulled her closer and relished the light feeling that had come over him, softening the edge of the inner core of rage that was always with him. He was happy, he thought with some surprise.

If she thought so much of him, it might be worth the risk of the potential for disaster that clung to him through his magic. Maybe—he kissed the top of her head—maybe they could discover a way to control his magic rather than destroy it with his death.

Aralorn awoke early and began planning what was best to do. She didn’t know if Kisrah would take his nighttime visitor’s information at face value or if he could tell that Wolf was Cain by some arcane human magic. Wolf said that he needed Kisrah’s help. There was a chance that Kisrah would attack Wolf the first time he saw him. She couldn’t risk it. She needed to talk to the Archmage first.

She liked Kisrah, but if he reacted badly, she would kill him before he got a chance at Wolf—if she could. She certainly would hate to do something like that in front of witnesses. So she needed a meeting without Wolf and outside of Lambshold.

Aralorn sat up and waited for Wolf to awaken. She wiggled a little. Nothing. She stared at him. Nothing. She reached her hands toward his side.

He rolled over and caught them. “If you tickle me this early in the morning, I’ll see to it that you regret it.”

She laughed. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough,” he growled, completing his roll.

Sometime later, he said, “Now, what was so important that you woke your husband up before the birds?”

He liked that word, she’d noticed, liked being her husband and the formalization of their bonds to each other. Given how hard he’d tried to keep a distance from her from the beginning of their association, she found it unexpectedly touching.

“Wasn’t this enough?” she asked, trying for a sultry tone. It wasn’t a role that she’d ever tried as a spy.

He bit one of her fingers gently. “Yes. So let us go back to sleep.”

She bit him back, harder.

“Ouch,” he said obligingly, but without any real emphasis, so she didn’t feel that she had to apologize.

“That’s what you get for trying to be funny. We need to go talk to Kisrah.”

Wolf grunted, then said, “So, what have you plotted for the poor man?”

Aralorn decided to overlook his attitude. “We’ll need to be careful—don’t you snort at me; I can be cautious when I have to be. I think I will take him on a ride along the trail to Ridane’s temple. Whoever visited him last night told him that you were Cain. I think that until I get a chance to talk to Kisrah, you need to stay out of sight.”

“Ah,” he said. “You meant I need to be cautious.”

She grinned. “You’re the one under the death sentence. Is Kisrah still under the influence of Geoffrey’s charisma spell?”

“Probably,” he replied. “If I were my father, I certainly would take no chances as far as Kisrah or any other high-ranking mage was concerned.”

“Can you break it?”

She felt him shrug. “I don’t know, but that was my thought as well. If my father is truly dead and can work no more magic, and if he chose to ensure that Kisrah never be a problem as I believe he would have—I might be able to.”

“It would be easier to get his cooperation if he didn’t attack me every time I said something nasty about his predecessor—and I don’t know how else to proceed.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

Aralorn finally found Kisrah in the bier room with her father. He’d arisen earlier than she’d expected, and she’d missed him at breakfast. A few questions to scattered servants had sent her to her father’s bier.

He looked up at the sound the curtain made as she entered and watched her with a hooded glance from his seat on one of the tables meant for gifts and flowers. He looked a bit like a gaudy bouquet in a combination of mauve and emerald that offended even Aralorn’s indifferent sense of style, but the bright array made the little room less somber.

“Lady Aralorn,” he said, acknowledging her entrance after he’d returned her stare for several seconds.

She bent and kissed her father’s slack face, taking a moment to reassure herself that he still lived, before turning back to the Archmage. “I visited the death goddess’s temple yesterday,” she said without preamble.

“I know,” said Kisrah. “Correy told me.”

She toyed with the front of the Lyon’s shirt, straightening it carefully where it had been pulled askew. Finished, she turned to the Archmage. “I owe you my apologies, sir. I have been rude. I know that you have come to help my father, and I’m sorry to be so secretive. My only excuse is that the last few days have been nerve-racking at best, and I’ve been a spy for long enough that questions make me nervous.”

“You sought me out to apologize?” asked the Archmage with a touch of wariness.

Although she noted that he hadn’t accepted her apology, Aralorn smiled and shook her head. “Not primarily, though it needed to be done. There are things that we should speak of, but outside of the keep walls. Would you ride with me?”

Kisrah gazed at the stone floor. “Where is your wolf? I was under the impression that he went everywhere with you.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully and added a little bait. “That’s one of the things I need to speak with you about.”

The Archmage leaned back against the wall. When he spoke, it seemed off the topic of discussion. “I fought a campaign against the Darranians with your father once, did you know?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Battles are odd things,” he said in musing tones. “Sometimes it seems as if you do nothing but hack and slash; at other times it seems as if you do nothing at all for weeks at a time. During the former, you learn a lot about your comrades by their actions; during the latter, you learn about them from their speech.”

His gaze rested on the Lyon’s quiet figure. “Your father is ferocious, tireless, and absolutely honorable. But more than that, he is cunning, always thinking—especially in the thick of battle, when everyone else is lost in bloodlust. He taught me a lot about how to judge men, to choose leaders and followers. He knew every man in our group and used them according to their strengths, and he tried to know as much about the men we fought as he did our own.” He reached out and touched the Lyon’s still face. “I learned to love him as much as I ever did my own father—as I expect every man to fight under him felt.”

While he spoke, Aralorn half sat, half leaned against the bier. When he paused to make sure she was listening, she nodded.

“While we waited for battle, we talked, your father and I. He told me something of you. He told me you’d fought with him against brigands here at Lambshold and said he’d rather have had you beside him than any three men. He’d have brought you to fight by his side as he did Falhart if it hadn’t been for his lady wife. He said you were clever, devious, and deadly—said you could outthink and outride any man he had with him, including himself.”

“You have a reason for all this praise, I trust,” said Aralorn.

Kisrah nodded, and a sudden grin lit his face. “Absolutely. First, let me say that I do not accept your apology, as I’m certain that you intended every frustrating minute of our last meeting—and enjoyed it as well. Devious and manipulative, your father said.”

He sobered, and Aralorn thought it might be sadness that crossed his face. “But—despite what I have been told, having the father you do, you could not be without honor and decency. I hope that a productive talk might shed some light on a few things. I think that I, too, have some things to tell you that it were better to talk of outside these walls.” He paused, and continued softly. “You might bring your wolf.”

Aralorn nodded. “I’m sure Wolf will join us at some point in our journey. Father’s got enough animals around here that you shouldn’t have a problem finding a mount: I assume by the speed of your arrival that you chose to translocate yourself—”

She didn’t know why she’d brought that up until she realized she was watching his face for guilt. There was none, of course; he hadn’t realized what Geoffrey had done to her after Kisrah had used his magic to transport her into the ae’Magi’s care.

Instead, Kisrah nodded, with a faint grimace of distaste. “Not my favorite spell, but it was important that I get here as soon as possible.

“You’re a braver man than I am,” murmured Aralorn. “I’ll meet you in the stables. Ask Falhart if you need help finding warm clothing.”

Aralorn had intended to take him only a short distance before stopping to talk, but she hadn’t counted on the wind. It kicked up when they were just out of sight of the keep.

The voices screamed through her ears: screams that brought visions of Geoffrey’s dungeons and dying children, the cries of the Uriah—shambling, rotting things that had once been human but now only hungered. Sheen picked up on her agitation and began snorting and dancing in the snow, mouthing his bit uncertainly as he waited for an ambush to leap from the nearest bush.

Hoping that the wind would settle down, she kept going. At this rate, they’d be at the temple before she could talk. She tried to ignore the wind for as long as she could, but at last she tucked the reins under her knees and tugged a woolen scarf from around her neck and wrapped it tightly around her ears.

“Are you all right?” asked Kisrah.

“I seem to have developed a bit of a problem with the wind,” she said truthfully: She tried to limit her lies when she could, especially when she was talking to wizards.

“Earache?” said Kisrah with some sympathy.

“I’m looking for someplace less windy,” she told him. “I hadn’t planned on riding all the way to the goddess’s temple for a little private conversation.”

He smiled. “I could do with a little exercise anyway. But if you can find a sheltered place I might be able to do something about the wind.”

She frowned at him. “You human mages,” she said. “Always so ready to impose your will where it doesn’t belong. There’s a small valley not too far from here; we’ll be free from the wind without any magic at all.”

He looked startled for a moment. “I’ve never been referred to in quite those terms. Do you not think of yourself as human, then?”

She smiled tightly, her tension owing more to the wind than any irritation with him. “No. But I won’t use the terms my shapeshifter cousins use for mageborn who use unformed magic. They aren’t flattering. Human will have to do.”

As she’d thought it might, the steep sides of the valley—well, gully, really—provided some relief from the wind. Aralorn stopped Sheen and cautiously removed the scarf from her ears. The roar had died to a dull whisper she could safely ignore.

“Why don’t you start, as you still owe me for your rudeness yesterday?” said Kisrah after he’d stopped and turned his horse so he faced her directly.

“All right,” agreed Aralorn readily. “How much do you know about charismatic spells?”

“What?” he asked in some surprise, but he answered her question without waiting for her to repeat herself. “I’ve never heard of one that was not black magic.”

“Yes,” said Wolf from behind them, “they are. Of the blackest kind.”

Aralorn turned to frown at Wolf. He was supposed to wait until she’d made certain that Kisrah wouldn’t attack him on sight. She supposed that it said something about Kisrah’s state of mind that he did not.

Wolf was in human form, clothed as always in black—an affectation Aralorn was determined to change. It wasn’t that he didn’t look good in it, just that it was a bit morbid at times. The silver mask was nowhere evident, and the magic-scarred face looked worse than usual in the bright winter sunlight.

“Cain,” said Kisrah softly, as if he hadn’t really believed what the specter had told him.

Wolf bowed shallowly without letting his eyes drop from the Archmage’s. “Lord Kisrah.”

“You are here to tell me the importance of . . . these charismatic spells, I assume?”

Wolf shook his head. “I wouldn’t have mentioned them myself, but as Aralorn has seen fit to do so, I will explain—better yet, I’ll cast one.” He made an economical motion with his hand.

Aralorn sucked in a breath at his recklessness. She would have thought the battle with his father would have cured him of seeking battle with another powerful mage. Couldn’t he have just told Kisrah how the spell worked?

Kisrah looked white and strained, but he gestured with equal rapidity—a counterspell, thought Aralorn—or rather a breaking spell of some sort, because it wasn’t possible to directly counter an unknown spell.

“Here,” said Wolf softly. “I’ll give you more magic to work with.”

Aralorn didn’t see anything happen, but a moment later Kisrah swore and pulled a thick gold-and-ruby ring off his finger, tossing it into the snow. It must have been quite warm, as it fell quickly through to the ground, then melted a fair-sized hole around it that exposed the yellowed grass beneath.

For Aralorn’s benefit, Wolf said, “He just broke the charisma spells—both of them.”

Aralorn looked at the ring, seeing the magic imbued in it. “Both of them?”

“Mine and my father’s.”

Kisrah nodded, looking stunned as he stared at the ring. “Geoffrey gave me that ring. I can’t believe I didn’t see that it was runescribed. Why would he do that?”

“My father,” observed Wolf, his hoarse voice sounding even dryer than usual, “was very good at making people overlook things when he chose.”

“The ring was runescribed?” asked Aralorn. She put her hands on her hips and glared at Wolf. “So mages do use rings and amulets for spells.”

“Not for warding spells,” said Wolf repressively. “The runes are too complex to fit on an amulet—at least a warding that would keep out much more than errant mice.”

“Ensorcelled,” said the Archmage, ignoring their by-play. “A charm spell, indeed, but to what purpose?”

“What indeed?” said Wolf.

“The ae’Magi spread his charisma spell over a fair bit of territory before he met his untimely end,” said Aralorn. “Why do you think everyone loved him so? Even people who’d barely heard of him.”

Kisrah stared at her.

“Who would ever think that the reason there were so few children in the villages around the ae’Magi’s castle was because the ae’Magi was killing them for the power he could get from untrained mages?” she said.

“He ...” Kisrah’s voice trailed off, then became firmer. “He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. A rune set in a ring—maybe. But I felt the power you had to use, Cain. No one could keep a spell like that running for long over more than a few people.”

“No one worries about charisma spells,” agreed Wolf. “They require too much power to be of use, and the control of the ae’Magi bars black magic anyway. Unless, of course, you are the ae’Magi and are perfectly willing to turn elsewhere for your power. There are a lot of spells that require too much power without death magic, sex magic, or, at the very least, blood, aren’t there? Some spells that haven’t been worked since the Wizard Wars.”

Kisrah flinched.

“He gave you such a spell to work, didn’t he?” asked Aralorn softly. “He gave you the proof, himself, that he knew . . . that he knows black magic.”

She wasn’t going to tell Kisrah that they weren’t sure that it was Geoffrey who had been visiting his dreams.

The Archmage looked up sharply.

“I’ve had a few dreams, too,” she said. “Dreams of blood and magic.”

“Yes.” His voice crackled like the ice under the horses’ hooves. “I set up part of the spell that holds the Lyon, plague take you both. I had to use black magic to do it.”

“Why?” asked Wolf.

“Shortly after Geoffrey disappeared, before anyone knew what might have happened to him, I awoke one night, and there he was, standing beside my bed. I was overjoyed at first, thinking that he was found—but then he told me he was one of the dreamwalking dead. He told me that you and your”—he glanced at Aralorn and changed the word he was going to use—“that you and Aralorn had killed him.”

“Did he tell you how it was done?” asked Aralorn. Had Kisrah been given true dreams or false?

“He said that you used one of the Smith’s weapons to destroy his magic and left him in the castle, which was full of Uriah, without defense.” Kisrah paused. “He asked me why I hadn’t helped him.” The wizard took in a deep breath, but his voice was unsteady when he continued. “I was there that night. I woke alone in the bedchamber with the body of the woman”—he glanced at Aralorn, his eyes hot with remembered fury—“the woman you killed with Cain’s staff. It was nigh on a quarter of an hour later when I felt Geoffrey’s grip on the Master Spells break. I could have saved him had I acted sooner.”

The Archmage’s voice was taut with sorrow and rage. He was lost in his habitual opinion of Geoffrey ae’Magi, forgetting for the moment that he’d had any doubts about Geoffrey’s virtue.

“Better that you didn’t,” said Aralorn, hoping to jolt him out of the remnant of the spell’s effect before he goaded himself into attacking them. It didn’t work.

Kisrah’s eyes flashed with anger. “He was my friend, and you killed him.” He turned abruptly toward Wolf, his horse snorting at the sudden jerk on its bit. “I know you, Cain, I know what you have done. I’ve seen the color of the magic you wield, and it stinks of evil. Should I take your word about his character?”

“Yet you worked black magic for Geoffrey ae’Magi yourself, didn’t you?” said Aralorn coldly, provoked by Kisrah’s verbal strike at Wolf. “Just as Cain did. Was it a goat you killed or a hen? Do you think that you are the purer for not having touched human blood? You know, of course, that Cain has done that, and you suspect he’s done more. You suspect that he’s killed, raped, tortured, and maimed. But don’t feel too superior—if we can’t break this spell within the next two weeks, my father will die. He will die because of your decision to play with black magic, because Geoffrey’s ghost taught you how to use death to gain power, more power than you might have had without resorting to black magic. When you wanted revenge, it was easy to overcome the scruples of a lifetime, wasn’t it? And you are a grown man who was taught right from wrong by people who loved you; not—”

“Enough, Aralorn,” Wolf broke in gently.

She bit back the words that might have wounded Wolf more than they hurt Kisrah. “Sorry,” she said.

“No,” said Kisrah, mistakenly believing her apology was to him. “You’re right. About what I have done, and why.” He looked at Wolf. “That doesn’t mean that what you have done is right, only that I am guilty of similar actions.”

Wolf shrugged when it became apparent that Kisrah was not going to speak further. “I have used no black magic since I left him; if you look, you will not find its touch on me. What I have done, I am responsible for—but for no more than that. As for accepting our word on the ae’Magi’s intentions, don’t be a fool.” Wolf bent down and picked up the ruby ring. “My father gave this to you. You know the spell it contained as well as I do—you broke it yourself. Why would my father need such a thing unless he was as we say?”

“I would be a fool,” said Kisrah softly, ignoring the ring Wolf held for him, “if, having found my judgment questionable once, I leap without thought a second time. Give me time to think over what we have talked about. I knew Geoffrey for most of my life. He was more than just a mentor to me.” He flexed his hands on the reins. “The girl Aralorn killed the night you destroyed Geoffrey—her name was Amethyst, and she was not yet twenty years old.”

“Do you remember”—Wolf’s rasp was so low that Aralorn could barely hear it over the wind—“that thing you came upon in the dungeons?”

Kisrah shivered, but Aralorn thought it might have been from the cold; they had been standing for a while.

“Yes,” said the Archmage. “I couldn’t sleep. It was dark, and I heard someone moving around in the cells, so I called a magelight and looked inside.”

He swallowed heavily at the memory of what he’d seen. “The next thing I remember is you standing in front of me and my face hurt where you slapped me. ‘Screams only agitate it,’ you said. ‘It can’t get out.’ ”

Kisrah’s lips twitched in something that might have been a faint smile. “Then you said, ‘It doesn’t like to eat sorcerers anyway—especially those without half the sense of a cooped chicken.’ ”

Wolf said, “Two days before, that thing had been my father’s whore. I believe she was fifteen. A peasant, of course, and so of little account except for her beauty. Father liked beautiful things. He also liked to experiment. He showed you some of them. I believe you referred to them as my father’s ‘unfortunate hobbies.’ ”

A myriad of expressions flittered across Kisrah’s face. Anger, disbelief . . . then dawning horror.

“The night I met you in the ae’Magi’s castle,” said Aralorn quietly, “after you were unconscious, the girl you’d slept with sprouted fangs and claws. I suppose I could have just left rather than killing her: She was far more interested in eating you than me.”

Kisrah didn’t say anything.

Aralorn spread her hands to show they were empty, the universal sign of truce. “If you want to ride by yourself a bit—the horse knows the way back to the keep. We can leave you.”

Kisrah hesitated, then nodded. “If you would, please. That might be best.”

“Well?” asked Aralorn.

Wolf, who’d shifted in front of Kisrah into his four-footed form for travel, shook his head. “I don’t know. It depends upon which he loves best, my father or the truth.”

He put on a brief burst of speed that precluded talk. Like Kisrah, she thought, he wanted a moment to himself.

The wind had picked up again as they’d ridden back onto less sheltered ground. It was not enough to send her shrieking for cover, but it was a near thing. It spoke to her in a hundred whispers that touched her ears with bits and scraps of information directly out of her imagination.

“Wolf?” she asked, when the sound grew too much.

“Ump?”

“Wizards have their specialties, right? Like the farseer who works for Ren.”

“Ump.”

A conversation takes two people, one of whom says something other than “Ump.” She thought about letting him be. His past was a sensitive topic, and she and Kisrah, between them, had all but beaten him over the head with it. The wind carried the sobs of a young child, bringing with the sound a hopeless loneliness that chilled her to the bone in an echo of her dreams of Wolf’s childhood. She tried again. She remembered a story about the gaze of the howlaa driving a man mad; too bad she hadn’t recalled that before she looked into its eyes.

“What is Kisrah’s specialty?”

“By the time a mage becomes a master, he has more than one area of expertise.”

“You knew him before that,” she persisted. “What was his field?”

“Moving things.”

“Like translocation?” asked Aralorn.

“Yes.” Wolf sighed heavily and slowed. “But he worked more with objects and delicate things—like picking locks or unbuckling saddle girths.”

“No wonder Father likes him,” she observed, relieved that he’d decided to talk. “Saddle girths and horseshoes have lost as many battles as courage and skill have won. What was Nevyn’s specialty?”

“Nevyn?” said Wolf. “I don’t know that I remember. By the time he got to Kisrah, he was in pretty rough shape—and the two of them didn’t really spend a lot of time with my father, in any case. He is fortunate he went to Kisrah; if he’d come to my father, he’d have been a babbling idiot for the rest of his life—I thought at the time that it looked like it might go either way.” His voice reflected the indifference he’d felt at the time, showing Aralorn how badly he’d closed down because she’d reminded him of what he’d once been.

“I hadn’t realized it had been so bad for him.” Aralorn pulled her scarf from the pocket she’d stashed it in and wrapped it around her ears. This conversation hadn’t helped either of them as much as she’d hoped it would. It hadn’t distracted her from the voices, nor had it restored Wolf’s mood. “I guess he was lucky to come out of all that with only a few quirks about shapeshifters.”

The wind swayed the larger branches now and sent odd bits of snow to swirl in place.

“Come on,” said Wolf. “See if that old fleatrap can move out a little; no sense wasting what’s left of the day playing in the snow.”