Wolfsbane

ELEVEN

The castle was quiet in the early-morning hour they’d chosen for their meeting. She and Wolf got to the bier room before dawn, more because she was too nervous to sleep longer than anything else. The guards had gotten used to her coming and going at odd hours, though this morning’s portal defender had given an odd look to the hen she’d stolen from the kitchen coop.

Wolf told her that he might need it if he decided to break the spell right then. Wolf hadn’t had to catch the blasted thing, of course.

She paced restlessly in the little room, taking a twisted path around the bier and the woven chicken basket, stopping now and again to touch her father.

Wolf lay with his nose tucked between his forepaws, watching her pace. “They’ll be here soon enough. Stop that.”

“Sorry”—she sat on her heels next to him and leaned against the wall—“I’m just anxious.”

“More anxious than the hen,” he commented shortly, “and with less reason, too.”

As if to emphasize his point, the hen clucked contentedly in its nest of hay. Aralorn stuck a sore finger in her mouth—the chicken had been upset when she grabbed it. “Nasty critter, anyhow.”

“Who’s a nasty critter?” asked Gerem suspiciously, pulling the curtain aside so he could enter.

“The hen,” said Aralorn, pointing at the villain with her chin.

Gerem peered at the battered crate. “What’d you bring a hen here for? Mother’s going to pitch a fit!”

“To free your Father,” replied Wolf.

Gerem came as close to jumping out of his skin as anyone Aralorn had ever seen. Three shades whiter than he’d been when he came in, he stared at Wolf.

“I see Kisrah informed him completely,” murmured Wolf sarcastically, wagging his tail gently as he returned the stare. “How much do you want to bet we get to inform him what method we’re using as well.”

“We needed him here,” warned Aralorn. “I don’t think that we can complain how it was done.” She stood up and turned to her brother. “Gerem, I’d like to introduce you to my—to my Wolf. At one point in time, he went by the name of Cain—son of Geoffrey ae’Magi. I’d suggest you be polite to him; at present, he appears to be the best chance we have of resurrecting Father.”

“The old ae’Magi’s son is a shapechanger?”

Aralorn blinked at him. One of the things her brother didn’t know, apparently, was Cain ae’Magison’s reputation. She supposed that made a certain amount of sense. Gerem had been a young boy when Cain dropped out of public view.

“Sometimes,” agreed Aralorn. “I find it a good thing that he takes after his mother’s side of the family.”

“Dead?” asked Wolf. “Of course, Father’s dead as well.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Do you have to go out of your way to intimidate everyone? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all work together this morning?”

“Ah,” said Kisrah, entering the room rather languidly.

He had to duck around the curtain to make certain it didn’t bend the pale pink feather that was set jauntily into his elaborate hairstyle. Wearing a three-foot-long feather was not something Aralorn would have done in his place; but then, she wouldn’t have worn pink with scarlet and emerald either. The brass bells on the heels of his shoes were nice, though—if impractical.

“I thought I would be the first one here. I see you brought the chicken. Marvelous. I thought I might have to do it.”

“We ought to make you do it,” said Wolf thoughtfully, “if only to see what the chickens would do when they heard those bells.”

“Unkind,” admonished Kisrah. “To intimate that I would risk scuffing these boots chasing chickens—what do you think I studied magic for, dear man?”

“They are joking,” said Aralorn, watching Gerem’s face. There were some benefits to Kisrah’s three-foot-long feather—it was hard to be frightened in the presence of such a creation.

Unexpectedly, Gerem grinned. “I’d place bets on Lord Kisrah. Nevyn told me about the time you chased a pick-pocket into the heart of the infamous slums of Hathendoe and came back unscathed. A chicken should be child’s play.”

“Stole my best gloves,” agreed Kisrah solemnly. “Purple with green spots, just the color and shape of spring peas.”

Gerem laughed but stopped when he saw Kisrah’s mournful face.

“Don’t worry about hurting his feelings,” rumbled Wolf. “He knows what the rest of the world thinks about his clothes.”

Reassurance was not exactly Wolf’s strong point, so Aralorn was pleasantly surprised that he’d gone out of his way to smooth the waters.

The Archmage grinned, looking Gerem’s age despite his wrinkles. “Faugh, Cain, you ruined it. He would have begged my pardon in another moment.”

“I like the bells,” commented Aralorn, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “Perhaps I’ll get myself a pair.”

Kisrah looked superior. “Spies don’t wear bells.”

She snorted. “Fat lot you know about spies. I was in your household for three months, and you never even knew my name.”

He frowned, staring at her intently. “The maidservant . . . Lura—”

“Not even close.” She shook her head mournfully.

“She’s a shapeshifter,” said Gerem. “She wouldn’t look like herself.”

“Even if you did manage to guess what part she played, she’d never admit it,” added Wolf, coming to his feet.

He took on human form, leaving off the mask and the scars—for Gerem’s sake, Aralorn thought. She glanced at her brother, who was looking nervous again. Yes, she was definitely going to have to do something about the black clothing. It was hard to look intimidating in . . . say, yellow. She grinned at the thought of Wolf dressed in yellow, with a bow to hold his hair back in its queue.

Kisrah drew in his breath at seeing Geoffrey’s face on Wolf.

“You need to wear a different color,” she said out loud, to distract both Wolf and Kisrah from something neither cared to think about. “Black is so . . . so—”

“Conservative,” chided Kisrah, recovering from his initial shock.

Gerem looked from Kisrah in pink, red, and green to Aralorn in her muddy-colored tunic and trousers, then advised dryly, “Keep the black.”

Wolf, bless his soul, smiled—a small smile that bore little resemblance to the charm of his father’s. “I intend to.”

The curtain rattled again, and Nevyn shut it carefully behind him. He surveyed the room, his eyes stopping on Wolf.

“Cain,” he said, in a tone that was more of an acknowledgment than a greeting.

At his entrance, Wolf had gone still, almost, thought Aralorn, apprehensive.

“Nevyn.”

“It’s been a long time. I—I—I had forgotten how much you look like him.” The stutter irritated Nevyn, and he stiffened further.

Rather than make things worse, as was his general reaction to people who feared him, Wolf merely nodded. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes,” agreed Kisrah. “We’re all here now.” He looked around, and for lack of a better place, he pulled himself up on the bier to sit beside the Lyon. “What do you need from us?”

“I need to know what you have wrought,” said Wolf. “So I can unmake it.”

“Then I’ll tell my part first.” The ae’Magi wiggled his feet, and the bells chimed softly in response.

“Tell us all of it,” suggested Aralorn. “Not just the spell—not everyone here knows what has been going on. I suspect that Gerem, for one, has no idea what happened to him, and we still only have guesses about who is responsible for this mess.”

“The whole story?” asked Kisrah. “There are parts that should remain secret.”

“Everyone here knows how my father died, or should,” said Wolf. “We might as well tell our version, too—after you are through with your story, Kisrah.”

“Very well, then,” agreed the ae’Magi. “I’m no storyteller, but I’ll tell you as much as I remember. Shortly after Geoffrey—the ae’Magi—died . . . I had a dream.”

Aralorn saw Gerem stiffen, like a good hound on a scent: Gerem had dreamed, too.

Kisrah continued. “Geoffrey came to me as I slept and sat upon the end of my bed—just as he used to.

“ ‘My friend,’ he said. ‘I have nowhere else to turn. I need your magic to come to my touch.’

“This surprised me greatly, for he was the greatest mage I ever saw.

“ ‘A spell?’ I asked. ‘Can’t you work it yourself?’

“He shook his head chidingly, and said, with that grin he used when I was being particularly obstinate, ‘Dead men cannot use magic, child.’

“I woke up, sweating like a frightened horse, but there was nothing in my room that hadn’t been there when I went to sleep. I thought at first that it had simply been a dream. But I’d forgotten what Geoffrey was.”

“A dreamwalker,” said Nevyn softly.

Kisrah nodded. “Exactly.” He looked at Gerem. “Do you know what dreamwalking is?”

“Yes,” replied Gerem. “Nevyn does it.”

Nevyn is a dreamwalker? thought Aralorn.

“Right,” agreed Kisrah. “There are a number of mages who can dreamwalk at the most basic level—fardreaming, it’s called. While fardreaming, a mage can send his spirit outside his body, usually no farther than a mile or two. Dreamwalking, though, is much more powerful and unusual. Nevyn and Geoffrey are the only living mages I’ve heard of who can send their spirits anywhere they want to. Generally speaking, a dreamwalker cannot affect the physical world—like moving chairs or tables. I say ‘generally’ because one or two of the better dreamwalkers were said to have tossed a chair or two.”

“Or a knife,” added Wolf dryly.

Kisrah nodded. “I stand corrected. A dreamwalker also cannot work magic in his spirit form. What he can do is look and listen without people suspecting they are being watched. And, though he can’t talk in a normal manner, he can communicate in a fashion called dreamspeaking.”

“Like a mindspeaker?” asked Gerem.

Kisrah nodded, “Only better. It takes one mindspeaker to hear another. A dreamspeaker can make himself heard by anyone he wants.”

Aralorn thought about the conversation she’d overheard and wondered if the dreamwalker who’d been Geoffrey had known that she was there listening.

“Anyone?” asked Gerem. “I thought that when a wizard becomes an apprentice, his dreams are protected by the Master Spells.”

“That’s right,” said Kisrah, though his mouth tightened just a little. “Smart lad. Yes, the Master Spells protect young wizards to a certain extent. There are other ways to ward yourself, too. It is possible for a dreamwalker to manipulate an unprotected person through dreams. Unethical, but there you are. But dreamspeaking isn’t any more manipulative than normal speech.”

Yes, thought Aralorn, watching Gerem as relief touched his face. No need to feel so guilty. You were not protected from the dreamwalker’s manipulations. Kisrah and Nevyn had known what they were doing.

Aloud, she asked, “Is magic necessary for dreamwalking, or are there dreamwalkers who are not mages?”

“Dreamwalking is a magic talent, like transporting things or illusions. Geoffrey said”—Kisrah hesitated—“if a dreamwalker’s body is killed while he is walking, his spirit can remain behind. Like a ghost, but with the full consciousness of the living person. He told me that the second time he came. And then he told me how he died.” Kisrah looked at Wolf, who looked back without any expression at all.

“He told me that you came back because you’d heard that he was looking for you, and you were tired of it. He said that you argued about your use of black magic. He finally tried to use the Master Spells to limit your ability to work magic.” Without dropping his gaze from Wolf’s, Kisrah said, “That’s one of the ways that an ae’Magi can control rogue wizards, Gerem—as a last resort.”

He seemed to be waiting for a response from Wolf, but after a fruitless pause, Kisrah continued. “In any case, he said he underestimated your power and the strength that black magic had given you; the spell was reversed. There came a point when you could have stopped it. He said you held the power for long enough to say something ironic—I’ve forgotten exactly what—and then you killed him.”

He believes it, thought Aralorn, at least at this moment.

“As a point of fact,” said Aralorn mildly, “it didn’t happen like that. I was there. Wolf did not kill Geoffrey; nor did I.” She started to tell them more about the last ae’Magi but caught the subtle shake of Wolf’s head in the corner of her eye. He was right. She had to be careful not to trigger whatever was left of the charisma spells. “He was killed by the Uriah.”

Kisrah stared at her, but she didn’t drop her gaze.

“Only the ae’Magi, Wolf, and I were there the night he died,” she continued mildly. “If your visitor was Geoffrey, then he put my father in danger—without Wolf’s cooperation, you three would not be able to remove the ensorcellment from my father. You have the word of a goddess that if it is not removed soon, the Lyon will die. Your dreamwalker asked you to work black magic upon an innocent man—is this something a good man would do? If it was not Geoffrey, then he doesn’t know what happened any more than you do.”

Kisrah rubbed his eyes. “At any rate, Geoffrey’s story is the one I believed when he asked me to work some magic for him. It was supposed to be for you, Cain. It would not kill you, just hold you for the wizard’s council’s justice. I agreed. He told me that he needed me to find a secret room in his bedroom. So I found the room and the sword he’d hidden there. With his directions fresh in my mind, I inscribed on the sword the rune he told me. Runes are not my strong point, and the one he used was unfamiliar and complex. It required all of my concentration to get it right. Just as I finished the last line, something grabbed my shoulder.”

He took a deep breath. “There was a Uriah standing just behind me, reflex took over, and I beheaded it with the sword—only then did magic pour into the rune I’d just finished.” Kisrah closed his eyes. “I didn’t know it needed blood magic. I don’t think I did. At the time, I told myself it was an accident that turned the spell black. I wanted to destroy the sword, offered to spell something else for him—anything else.”

The Archmage sighed. “He said that the sword was the only sure bait, that perhaps the black magic would work in our favor. Even the Master Spells had failed to hold Cain; maybe it would take black magic to counter black magic. Geoffrey was always good at getting his own way by fair means or foul.” He paused, as if surprised by what he’d said. “By the time I realized that he’d intended to use black magic all along, I was already resigned to it. Maybe I’d have done it for him anyway.”

“Did Geoffrey tell you to send the sword here, or did you suggest it?” asked Aralorn. When the Archmage had died, he knew that she and Wolf were together—but she was certain that he hadn’t made the connection between her and Lambshold. She took great care that most people didn’t know.

“Geoffrey,” he said. “The night after I brought the sword back with me, he told me he wanted me to send it to Nevyn. He told me that Nevyn’s sister by marriage was Cain’s lover. I sent the sword. Only afterward did I begin to question what I had done.”

The hen clucked in its crate, reminding everyone in the room (except perhaps for Gerem and Nevyn, who Aralorn was not certain knew what they’d been planning) that black magic was needed to release the Lyon. Aralorn looked at the bird thoughtfully for a moment.

“Perhaps a more noble motive might have allowed me to shut my eyes longer to what I had done.” Kisrah smiled grimly at Wolf. “I didn’t work the spell to capture Cain and save the world from dark magic—I worked it for revenge. I hated you for taking my friend from me. I knew that the end result of Geoffrey’s plan was your death.”

“I would have expected no less,” agreed Wolf softly. “I know what he was to you. What was the rune he had you draw?”

From an inner pocket, Kisrah produced a sheet of paper with two neat drawings he gave to Wolf. Since drawing the rune itself would activate it, rune patterns were split into two drawings that, when laid one over the other, formed the rune. Aralorn had never been able to put the patterns together in her head without getting a headache, but Wolf nodded, as if it made sense to him.

“What did he have you add to it?” he asked Nevyn.

Nevyn had taken a seat on the floor where he could lean against the wall, as far from where Wolf stood as he could get. He had listened to Kisrah’s story with his eyes closed; dark shadows and lines of weariness touched his face. At Wolf’s question, he dug into the pouch attached to his belt and mutely handed him two sheets of paper.

Wolf took them and held them up separately, frowning. “Where did you place it? On the blade as well?”

Nevyn nodded. “Farther down on the blade, near the point.”

“Another binding spell of some sort,” said Kisrah after a moment of staring over Wolf’s shoulder. “Had you seen it before, Nevyn?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Cain?”

Wolf shook his head as well, but slowly. “Not exactly, no.”

“Did he ask you to kill anything?” asked Kisrah.

“No,” said Nevyn. “But what I did was worse.” He turned slightly to address everyone. “I knew that the spell was intended for the Lyon and that he was to be the bait that drew Aralorn and . . . Cain here.” His voice grew quieter. “I—I—I suggested it to him. Aralorn hadn’t come here for ten years. When he asked me what would make her return, I told him that I thought the only thing that would work was if someone died—if Henrick died.”

He looked at Wolf, and his voice became guttural. “So he put a spell on the Lyon that only you could break. Black magic, he said, so that Kisrah would not know how to unwork the spell. I told him that you might not come, might not expose yourself for someone you didn’t know. So he decided to see if we could trap Aralorn in it as well. I called the baneshade here and set it to extend the spell to Aralorn.”

“Do you know what he intended to do to Wolf—sorry, Cain—once he was here?” asked Aralorn, interested in what Geoffrey had told Nevyn. “After all, here he is . . . and no one has moved against him.”

Nevyn shrugged. “Kisrah was to come upon Cain working black magic, and then he’d have to face justice at the ae’Magi’s hands.”

Kisrah’s bells rang as he started in surprise. “My dear Nevyn, I don’t think I have the power to constrain or kill Cain—you haven’t seen what he can do.”

“After unworking the spell on the Lyon, he would be in no shape to resist you.” He sat forward suddenly, a bitter twist to his mouth. “You can rot, Cain, for all I care. But Henrick has been more of a father to me than my own ever thought of being, and I helped to trap him. Any magic that binds a person as tightly as he is bound will be tricky to unwork at best. It has become increasingly obvious that Geoffrey doesn’t care if Henrick lives or dies—but I do. If I can help you, I will—if you die in the process, so much the better.”

“All right,” said Wolf, and Aralorn eyed him sharply.

“What did you do with the sword after you worked the spell?” asked Kisrah.

Nevyn drew in a breath. “I gave it to Henrick the day he was enspelled; I met him at the stables as he was leaving to inspect the burnt-out croft. I told him a messenger brought it from Aralorn.” He lowered his eyes. “Henrick gave me his old campaign sword, told me to put it in the armory, and carried the one I’d given him.”

With a casualness that spoke of more practice than Aralorn had suspected, he gestured with both hands, and a sword appeared on the floor in front of them. “This sword. You see why we knew that he would carry this one.”

It wasn’t a ceremonial sword, nor was it ornate. But even Aralorn, who was admittedly not the best of sword judges, could see the care that had gone into its making. The pommel was wood, soft finished—nothing spectacular, but high quality nonetheless. It was the blade that attested to the care that had gone into the sword’s making. Countless folds of a repeating pattern marked the blade: a master-work of a talented swordsmith.

Wolf knelt and ran a hand over it without touching. “There’s no magic to it now other than the power of a sharp blade.” He smiled. “It belonged to my father’s predecessor. I suspect that means it is yours now, Kisrah.”

“No,” said the Archmage, sounding revolted. “If there’s no more harm in it, then it should be the Lyon’s, assuming you can fix this. He’s paid enough for it.”

Once he’d called the blade, Nevyn had ignored it completely. Rising to his feet, he walked around Wolf to the bier.

“He’ll hate me when he knows what I have done.” Nevyn stared at the Lyon’s body.

“No,” said Aralorn gently. “He never expected any of his children to be perfect. Tell him what you have told us; he’ll understand. He liked Geoffrey, too.”

Nevyn shook his head.

“My turn,” said Gerem, flushing when his voice cracked.

“Your turn,” agreed Aralorn.

“I’ve been having strange dreams for a long time. Nightmares mostly.” He swallowed heavily. “I don’t really know where to start.”

They waited patiently, giving him a chance to get his thoughts in order.

Finally, he looked at Aralorn. “I don’t know what life here was like when you were a child, but to me it always seemed as if I was lost in a crowd. I’m clumsy with a blade and have no interest in hunting some poor fox or wolf. The only thing I can do is ride, but in this family even Freya and Lin do that well. The week . . . the week that Father was ensorcelled, he talked to me once—and that was to ask me if I had any clothes that fit.” Self-consciously, he pulled a sleeve down so it briefly covered the bones in his wrist before sliding back up.

“One night I dreamed that I saddled my horse and rode up to the old croft. There was a rabbit hiding under a bush that I killed with an arrow. Something happened then . . . when it died I felt a rush of power that filled me until I could hold no more. I walked the fence line of the croft, chanting as the rabbit’s blood dripped to the ground.”

There was a grim factuality to his story that Aralorn could not help but approve. To a boy who disliked hunting, the realization of what he had done must be sickening.

“When I was through, I dipped my finger into the rabbit’s death wound, and I was thinking of Father, on how much this would impress him, how proud he would be to have a son who was a mage. I made a mark on the corner post of the fence.”

“What did the mark look like?” asked Wolf.

“Two half circles, one above the other—connected bottom to top.”

Wolf frowned. “Open to the left or right or one each way?”

“To the left.”

Wolf closed his eyes as if it allowed him to better visualize the spell.

Still looking at the drawings, he asked, “You said you were chanting. Do you remember what you said?”

Gerem frowned. “No. It was in Rethian, though, because I knew what I was saying at the time. I remember thinking that it was strange. I remember that it rhymed.” He was silent for a moment. “Something about feeding, I think. Death, magic, and dreaming, but that’s all I can remember.”

“And then you burned the croft,” said Wolf.

Gerem nodded. “They said later there were animals in the barn.” He sounded sick.

“Be glad there weren’t people,” commented Aralorn.

“Thanks,” he said sourly, but with a touch of humor. “Now I can have nightmares about that every night, too.”

“You thought this was a dream?” asked Kisrah.

Gerem nodded. “Until we received news of the burning of the croft. Even then I didn’t really believe I’d been the one to burn the croft until Father collapsed.” He paused and looked at Aralorn. “I am really glad he isn’t dead. After he was brought back to the keep, I took out my hunting knife—there was dried blood on the blade just beneath the handle where my cleaning cloth might have missed.”

“Gerem,” said Kisrah, “of all of us here, you hold the least guilt. Without the protection of the spells binding master to apprentice, a dreamwalker of Geoffrey’s caliber could make you do anything he wanted you to. You are no more guilty of killing that rabbit, burning the animals in the barn, or entrapping the Lyon than a sword is guilty of the wounds it opens.”

Aralorn could have kissed him.

Gerem’s lips twitched up just a little. “You’re saying that I was just a hatchet that happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

The Archmage smiled and nodded. “After we free your father, I’ll speak to him about setting up a real apprenticeship.” He turned to Nevyn. “I’ll make certain he doesn’t have your experiences, Nevyn. You should have told—” He stopped when Nevyn flinched and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Wolf folded the drawings and put them into a pouch he carried on his belt.

“Do you know enough to release him?” asked Aralorn.

Wolf hesitated. “I will only get one chance at this. I’d like to think about it a little more. I know where Father kept his favorite spell books: Let me take a day or so to look through them before I try this.”

“In my library,” said Kisrah dryly.

“Not exactly,” said Wolf. “Remind me sometime to show you some of the secrets you ought to know about the ae’Magi’s castle. In the meantime, I need to look a few things up.”

“That sounds like a good idea to me,” said Kisrah. “Do you need any help?”

Wolf shook his head. “No. There are only two rune books he used—it wasn’t Father’s forte either.”

Kisrah bit his lip. “May I talk to you in private before you go, Cain?”

Wolf raised one eyebrow in surprise. “Certainly.” He took Aralorn’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I’ll be back this evening.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Fine.”

He turned back to the Archmage. “Shall we walk?”

Kisrah led the way to the frozen gardens, making no attempt to talk until they were out in the cold.

“Cain, the Master Spells are missing—or rather half of them are.”

“What?” Shock broke through Wolf’s preoccupation with the spell he would have to perform in order to free Aralorn’s father.

“Haven’t you noticed?”

Wolf shook his head, still feeling disbelief—the Master Spells held the fabric of wizardry together. “They haven’t had any effect on me for a long time.”

“Without the spells, the position of ae’Magi is no more than a courtesy title. I have no way of controlling a rogue wizard, no way of detecting black magic unless I am in the proximity of whoever is working it. When I found them in Geoffrey’s library, the pages that contained the ae’Magi’s half of the rune spells were missing.”

Ah, thought Wolf, as he said, “I don’t know where they are.”

“I believe you,” said Kisrah, leaving Wolf feeling odd—as if he’d braced himself for an attack that hadn’t come. “You had no motive to take them. If anyone could have controlled you with them, Geoffrey would have done so a long time ago. Do you know where he would have hidden them?”

“The only time that I saw them, they were in the ae’Magi’s grimoire in the vault in the library.”

“They are no longer there. If you find them—”

“I’ll bring them to you. It’s not rogue wizards that bother me; it’s what will happen if everyone realizes you no longer control them.”

“Witch hunts,” agreed Kisrah grimly.

Wolf nodded. “I’ll look out for them, but don’t be surprised if I don’t find them. Father wasn’t the only wizard who dabbled in the black arts—I know there were at least two others. It would be worth their lives to keep them from you.”

Kisrah swore heatedly. “I hadn’t thought of that. Who are they?”

Wolf shrugged. “I don’t know their names, and they kept their faces hidden. Do you still have the other half of the spells?”

Kisrah nodded. “We hid them as soon as it was clear that something had happened to Geoffrey’s.”

“I’ll look,” promised Wolf again, then turned away from the ae’Magi.

“Cain,” Kisrah said.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Wolf swept him a low bow before heading briskly out of the gardens. He would look, but he suspected the spells were long gone, maybe destroyed. Not entirely a bad thing, he decided after a while. Geoffrey ae’Magi could not have been the only ae’Magi who used them for other than their intended purposes, otherwise there wouldn’t be so many black grimoires left after ten centuries.

He had a library to visit with more urgent business. More than he needed his father’s books, he needed a quiet place.

Aralorn waited until Gerem and Nevyn followed the other mages out the door before turning to the chicken in the crate.

“Coming out, Halven?” she asked.

The hen let out a startled squawk.

She pulled the lid off the crate and shook her head. “Don’t give me that. If you wanted to remain anonymous, you could have made your clucks less pointed. Otherwise, I’d never have thought to check to see if the chicken was really a chicken. I never have been able to switch from one sex to the other.”

The hen jumped to the top of the crate and landed on the floor as her uncle—this time in the form of a tall red-headed man wearing the clothes of one of the Trader Clans. “Having you around makes spying much more interesting,” he said, sounding pleased.

“What would you have done if he’d been ready to unwork the spell and tried to sacrifice you?” she asked.

He grinned. “I wouldn’t have let him slit my throat, but I was pretty sure that he’d want to consider the spells for a while.”

“Be that as it may, I for one am glad you’re here. How much do you know about human magic?”

Halven raised his eyebrows. “Less than Wolf, I imagine.”

“He’s busy—and I’m not certain that it’s something I want to discuss with him right now. Just how powerful would a dreamwalker have to be in order to control a howlaa?”

“Ah, dreamwalking is not just a human talent, and I do know a little something about it.” He scratched his chin. “Howlaas are magical creatures, much more difficult to influence than a half-fledged boy like Gerem. Dreamwalking is more common among us than among the humans, but we don’t tend to be nearly as powerful. I know two dreamwalkers; only one of them can dreamspeak. We don’t even have stories of dreamwalkers who can influence others the way Gerem was, except for the—what was it you called it? Ah yes, the Dreamer.”

“Now you’ve heard the whole story of the spell on the Lyon. Do you still think that a dead dreamwalker couldn’t do this?”

“Maybe one could,” he said. “Kisrah and Nevyn’s part, yes. I am less certain of whoever held your brother in thrall—I’d think that would take a fair bit of power. The howlaa? I just don’t see how a dead man would have the power to do that. But I haven’t talked to any dead dreamwalkers to be certain of it.”

“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “I should go talk to someone who knows more about dead people.”

The wind was gusty as Aralorn took the path to the temple, but it didn’t bother her as much today. Perhaps her lessons on centering helped her to block the voices more effectively, or else the ability was fading with time. She rather hoped for the latter.

The temple doors stood open, so she rode directly there, dismounted, and left Sheen standing outside.

“Tilda?” she called softly. The room appeared deserted, though by no means empty. In spite of the open door, it was warm inside, but there was no sign of a fire. She shivered and backed out of the temple, closing the doors carefully behind her.

Leading Sheen toward the little cottage, she told him, “I don’t know why that should unnerve me when I run around with wizards and shapechangers, but it does.”

There was a hitching post in front of the cottage, and Aralorn dropped Sheen’s reins beside it.

“Be good,” she said, and patted him on the shoulder before taking the shoveled path to the door of the cottage.

“Enter,” bade a cheerful voice when she knocked. “I’m in the kitchen, baking.”

Sure enough, when Aralorn opened the door, the smell of warm yeast billowed out.

“It’s me, Aralorn.” She followed the smell to find Tilda up to her elbows in bread dough. “I see I caught you working.”

Tilda laughed. “Shh. Don’t tell. A priestess is supposed to stand around and look mysterious.”

“That’s all right, I generally get plenty of mysterious. Speaking of which, the temple door was opened. I shut it before I came here.”

Tilda smiled. “Well then, we both welcome you here.”

“Thank you,” said Aralorn with what aplomb she’d managed to develop running around with Wolf. “I came because I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Me or the priestess?”

Aralorn shrugged. “Whichever one can answer my questions. Geoffrey ae’Magi is dead, right?”

“Yes,” Tilda answered without hesitation. “Ridane sometimes tells me when significant people die.”

Aralorn let out a harsh breath of relief. She’d been pretty sure of it, but hearing it was better. She could deal with him dead—it was the living Geoffrey who had scared the courage out of her. “A great many people, including the current ae’Magi, are convinced that his spirit is dreamwalking around Lambshold. Is that possible?”

“Dreamwalking?” Tilda stopped kneading her bread and looked thoughtful. “I don’t know.” She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.

Something stirred in the air. It wasn’t magic, but it was like enough to it that Aralorn could feel it drift through her and wrap itself about the priestess.

When Tilda opened her eyes, the pupil filled her iris, making her eyes appear almost black. “No,” she said. “There are a few ghosts in the area, old things for the most part. But nothing strong enough to influence the living.”

Aralorn nodded slowly. “That’s what I needed to know. Thank you.” She turned to go.

“Wait,” said the priestess. “There is something ...”

“Yes?”

Tilda stared at her bread for a moment before looking up. She was pale as milk, and her pupils were contracted as if she stood in the noonday sun rather than in a cozy but rather dim cottage. “If you are not very careful and very clever, there will be several more deaths soon.”

“I am always clever,” responded Aralorn, with more humor than she felt. “Careful, we may have to work around.” Tilda still looked upset, so Aralorn added, “I know that there is danger. It should not take me long to discover what has been happening these last few weeks. Once I know that—I’ll know what can be done.”

“Ridane says that the web is spun, and one person at Lambshold will die no matter what you do.”

Aralorn had not dealt with gods much, but she was a firm believer in writing her own future. She was not about to let Ridane decide the fate of her family and friends. “I’ll do what I can. Thank you, Tilda. You’ve helped a great deal.”

Nevyn, she thought as she mounted Sheen. It is Nevyn.

The stallion snorted and sidled and generally kept her attention until they were well on their way back to Lambshold. As she’d listened to Gerem’s story, she had known it wasn’t Geoffrey. If Geoffrey had known that there was a mage of Gerem’s potential, untrained, at Lambshold, he would have moved mountains to get to him—untrained mages gave him so much more power than trained mages. So Geoffrey hadn’t known about Gerem before he died. And, as a dead man seeking revenge, he would not have used Gerem to do his work—he’d have used Anasel. Surely a doddering old man who had been a great mage would have been a better target. But Nevyn avoided Anasel as he avoided most of the mageborn if he could. If he needed two other mages to help him, it would be Kisrah and Gerem. But Nevyn would never hurt her father.

One of Aralorn’s greatest talents as a spy, other than being able to turn into a mouse, was her ability to take a few bits of knowledge and knit them into a whole story.

Kisrah told her that Nevyn was a dreamwalker.

Kisrah had long been a favorite of the ae’Magi’s and spent a lot of time at the ae’Magi’s castle.

Nevyn, who’d already suffered from being a mageborn Darranian, had been first apprenticed to a wizard who had abused him. That wizard, though powerful, had a bad enough reputation that the ae’Magi had never associated with him willingly.

Those were the facts she had. It was enough for an experienced storyteller to work out the probabilities.

She saw in her head that boy, wary and nervous, taken by his new master to the ae’Magi’s castle. Abused children try to protect themselves any way they can. They hide, they try to please their abuser, they use their magic. Santik had not been a dreamwalker; certainly his apprentice would have used his talent to spy upon him to try to stay safe. Perhaps dreamwalking to watch his master had already been a habit when he’d gone into Kisrah’s care.

Kisrah would certainly have taken his new apprentice to the ae’Magi to see if Geoffrey had suggestions on how to handle the boy. Like Kisrah himself, Nevyn had had the promise of power, and Geoffrey would never have let such a wizard in his presence without ensuring that he, too, was caught up in the charisma spell. Maybe Nevyn had a ring like Kisrah’s or some other bit of jewelry, given to him by the ae’Magi.

She wondered how long it had been before Nevyn, dreamwalking, had first spied upon the ae’Magi. Because once he had been abused, he certainly would have had trouble believing in the goodness of those assigned to his care. Spying on Kisrah would have caused him no harm. But the ae’Magi . . . Even Kisrah, an adult, had been torn by the discrepancy between how he felt about Geoffrey because of the charisma spell and what he witnessed at the ae’Magi’s castle. And Kisrah hadn’t seen half of it. Wolf had—and Aralorn would have bet that Nevyn had as well.

Ah, gods, she thought. The poor boy.

Sheen guided himself for a bit while she dropped her reins to wipe at her eyes. He shook his head when she drew the reins taut again.

That first time, she thought, how old was Nevyn the first time? What did he see?

She’d seen Geoffrey kill children, had seen a man she knew in the face of a shambling Uriah, had seen a woman who turned into a flesh-eating thing—and she’d only been around the last ae’Magi for weeks, not years. Wolf had experienced worse—and so, she was certain, had Nevyn. All the while he’d been defenseless, caught up by the ae’Magi’s spell that bound him to think that the Archmage was the best, most wonderful of good men.

Each thread of the story flowed worse than the last.

Spying on the ae’Magi would have allowed Nevyn access to black magic. Geoffrey was a dreamwalker, too. Had he known that Nevyn was spying?

Of course he had, she thought. How could he not? Geoffrey had been as powerful as only a black mage who was also the Archmage could be. Had he compared them, Wolf and Nevyn, as he taught them both things children should never have to know? Nausea curled in her belly. It would have given him great pleasure to have them both, she thought, one boy who fought him and one who had already been taught to please an abusive master and now had one he was forced to love.

Nevyn would have been fully under the influence of the ae’Magi’s magic. Knowing that the ae’Magi was wonderful and seeing the horrors he committed. What had that done to Nevyn?

“Aralorn!” bellowed Falhart from the stable door as she rode up. “You missed our date.”

“Date?” she raised her eyebrows.

“Rematch, double or nothing—don’t you remember?”

“Ah,” she said. “I wasn’t certain you’d let me have another match since you won the first. Luck can’t be with you all the time.”

“Luck, she says!” He appealed to the interested spectators who’d begun gathering in the courtyard at his first bellow. Then he turned back to Aralorn. “Skill it was, and right well you know it, small one.”

“Big people have farther to fall,” she retorted. “Let me get my staves, and I’ll meet you there.” She’d tire her body, then see if she could piece together some way to save her father, Nevyn, and Wolf. Because, with Nevyn as the enemy, Wolf was still at risk.