Wolfsbane

TWELVE

Falhart was waiting for Aralorn when she got to the practice grounds. He’d stripped down to his trousers, which was gutsy of him, if not too smart. A leather shirt was fair protection against bruises—and the cold for that matter.

Shirtless, he appeared even larger than he did clothed, and if that flesh was tinged blue from the weather, it didn’t detract from the whole. From the looks of him, he trained as hard as any new recruit, for there wasn’t a spare bit of flesh anywhere.

If she’d been the kind of person who was easily intimidated, she’d have been getting nervous. As it was, she looked around but didn’t see his wife or any other reason for the display—though there was a fair-sized crowd beginning to gather.

Aralorn generally preferred to keep as much clothing on as possible when fighting someone who didn’t know her; the less anyone saw of her muscles, the more they underrated her abilities—not that she expected Falhart to underestimate her. Perhaps he fought stripped down to intimidate his opponent. If she were as large as he, she might try that tack, but she wouldn’t expect it to be too effective against a small woman who was used to fighting musclebound men.

“Let you win once, and you get visions of invulnerability,” she mourned, gesturing toward his discarded clothing. “Just think of the bruises you’ll carry tomorrow.”

“You talk pretty big for a little thing who got beaten soundly yesterday,” he returned, working his big staff in a pattern that made it blur and sing.

His weapon was impressive: He was using his war staff rather than the practice one he’d had yesterday. It was half a foot taller than he was and as big around as he could comfortably hold—Aralorn doubted she could close her hand around it. It was stained almost black and shod with polished steel that caught the light as he made it dance. She shook her head at him—there were easier ways to warm up.

Watching the gathering crowd, Aralorn grinned at the looks of awe her brother was receiving from the young men. Obviously, he didn’t put on a display like this every day.

In comparison, she knew that she made a pitiful showing. She’d picked the same single staff she’d fought with yesterday: Her staff looked like a child’s toy in comparison to Falhart’s. She set it aside as she warmed up, stretching her muscles but not using them appreciably.

She could hear active betting in the crowd, which meant that someone expected her to win, which surprised her given Hart’s show of force.

“Got those five coppers handy?” she asked, as a way of announcing she was ready to fight. “I don’t accept credit.”

“I’ve got them,” said Correy, pushing his way to the fore of the crowd and stepping over the low barrier that defined the ring. “Can’t even buy a night’s stay in a decent inn for that, Aralorn. Are you sure you don’t want to up the bet?”

She shook her head. “I never bet more than ten—and then only if it is a bet I’m certain to win. Any more than that, and I might miss it. I’m just a poor mercenary, not heir to a landed noble like some people I know. And, Correy, anyone who spends five coppers for a night at the inn better be paying for more than room and board, or else he’s getting rooked. Falhart, are you through wasting your strength yet?”

He looked at Correy, who nodded.

Which was odd—unless she tied it in with Falhart’s bare chest and the active betting. “It’s not kind to sucker people who can’t afford it, Correy,” she said softly.

“I’m not taking more than they can afford—Father pays his men well.” He turned his back to the crowd so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Besides, Hart’s not throwing the fight. He just told me that he’d be surprised if you let him win twice in a row.”

“He owes me a gold for fighting without my shirt,” murmured Hart. “I get that win or lose.”

Aralorn grinned at him, “Does your wife know you take your shirt off for money?”

“Just don’t tell Irrenna,” he pleaded—only half joking.

“Oh-ho,” she crowed. “This sounds like blackmail material.”

Hart rolled his eyes, “Can we get on with this? It’s blasted cold out here.”

Aralorn straightened and shook her shoulders out. “Fine. I’ll add a little black to your blue skin.”

Correy stepped out of the ring, leaving it to the combatants.

The secret of fighting against a man using a tree was never to be where he thought you were going to be. Her staff could turn his, but if she was stupid enough to try to block his directly, it would snap.

For the first few minutes, they fought silently, trying to take each other by surprise before it turned into an endurance contest. Falhart had to move more bulk around than Aralorn, but she had to move hers faster because of the length of his reach, so they were both breathing heavily when they backed off.

“There’s a story I once heard,” she said, pacing around the ring without taking her eye off him, “about a thief-taker who worked for the king of Southwood several generations back. His name was Anslow.”

“Never heard of him,” grunted Falhart, moving at her in a rush. She dove under his blow, tucked her stick neatly between his knees, and twisted. He fell to the ground, rolling, and she jumped lightly back out of his reach. “Don’t try that move on me again,” he warned. “Twice is pushing it.”

She shrugged, grinning. “Some moves bear repeating, if only for entertainment value. That’s the trouble with your being so large—it’s too much fun to watch you fall.”

They circled warily for a moment. Without the protection of a shirt, Falhart was more cautious than he’d been the day before. “Why don’t you continue with your story?”

Aralorn nodded, walking backward as he stalked her. “Anslow solved crimes that had stumped many before him, winning a reputation as the best of his kind. There are stories of cases he solved with nothing but a bit of thread or a single footprint.”

Falhart closed, taking a swing at her middle. Aralorn didn’t even pause in her story as she avoided the blow. “He was a legend in his own time, and lawbreakers walked in fear of his shadow. But there was one criminal who did not fear him.”

“Stay put, you runt,” he snapped, as she dodged past him, catching him a glancing hit on his ribs.

“Point,” she crowed. “This criminal was a killer who chose women for victims.”

“I can see his—point,” muttered Falhart as he caught her squarely in the back, knocking the breath out of her.

Chivalrously, he stepped back and waited for her to breathe again. It took her a moment before she came to her feet.

“Allyn’s toadflax, Hart, that’s going to hurt tomorrow.”

He grinned, showing not the least hint of remorse. “That’s the point of the whole thing.”

“Right,” she said dryly, though she couldn’t help smiling.

This was fun. She hadn’t been able to really cut loose since her last good sparring partner had been killed. If you didn’t trust the skills of your opponent, you couldn’t use your best moves against him unless you wanted to kill him. With a wild yell, she launched an attack designed to do nothing more than tire Falhart out.

“You were telling me about the thief-taker,” he said, matching her blow for blow and adding a few moves of his own to show her she wasn’t in control of the fight.

“Ah,” she said, slipping nimbly out of the path of his quarterstaff. “So I was. The killer took his prey only once a year, on the first day of spring. He laid his victims out in some public place in the dark of the night. As the years passed, the killer taunted Anslow, sending him notes and clues that did the thief-taker no good.”

While he was extended in a thrust that she’d turned aside, she slipped the end of her staff sideways and hit him squarely in the breastbone, where it left a bruise to match the one on his ribs. “Two.”

He growled and circled. She stuck her tongue out at him; he made a face.

“The night before the killer would take his fifteenth victim,” she continued, “Anslow took every note the killer had sent him and set them before him, trying to find a pattern. He thought it was someone he knew, for the notes contained a few private references—things that only Anslow should have known.”

She broke off speaking, for Falhart moved in with a barrage of blows that required all of her concentration to counter. At last, he managed to hit her staff directly, snapping it in two. The blow continued more gently, but she came out of the encounter with sore ribs.

“Two,” he said.

She snapped in with the remnants of the staff and poked him in the belly—gently. “Three—my match.”

There were loud groans from the audience as they sorted out who owed what to whom. Falhart grinned and leaned on his staff.

“So, tell me the rest of the story,” he said, breathing heavily.

She sat down briefly on the ground, but the cold drove her to her feet. “About Anslow? Where was I?”

“He had the notes from the killer in front of him.”

“Ah, yes. Those notes. He set them out on his desk, oldest to newest. He had noticed early on that the killer’s handwriting bore a strong resemblance to his own—but it was the last letter he stared at. The killer’s hand had developed a tremor; the letters were no longer formed with a smooth, dark flow of ink. Just recently, Anslow had noticed that his hands shook when he wrote. He himself was the killer.”

She touched the broken end of one of the sections of her staff in the dirt and dragged it back and forth gently in random patterns.

Falhart frowned. “How could he be the killer and not know it?”

Aralorn contemplated her broken staff as if it might hold the secrets of the universe. “There is a rare illness of the spirit in which a person can become two separate beings occupying the same body. There is a shadow that forms, watching everything the primary person does, knowing what he knows—but the real person may have no knowledge of what the shadow does when he controls the body.” She flipped the piece into the air and caught it.

“Strange,” observed Falhart, shaking his head.

Correy came up to them and took Aralorn’s hand in his, turned her palm upright, and placed six copper coins in it, talking to Falhart all the while. “Thanks for the tip, Hart. I got ten-to-one odds. It was only six to one before they had a chance to compare your manly figure with the midget here—you can put your shirt back on now.”

Wolf stared at the rows of books in his shelves, caressing the bindings gently. He didn’t pull any out—that could wait. He knew which ones held the information he needed. But he already knew what the spell would cost, had known, really, since Kisrah had told him that he’d killed a Uriah to set his spell, though he’d held out some hope until he’d heard everything that had been put into the binding magic holding the Lyon. He had known that his father had at last succeeded in destroying him.

A human had died to power the spell created by three mages. A human death was needed to unmake it. A Uriah counted as a person, ensorcelled and altered though he was—he had been a man once. If Kisrah had known the nature of the Uriah, he would have known such a sacrifice was necessary. He might have told Aralorn, then she would believe it was her decision to make. Wolf knew that it was his, and he had made it as soon as he realized what would be needed.

How ironic that when he finally decided that he might actually deserve to live, he discovered that he was going to have to die. How had his father known that he would love Aralorn enough to sacrifice himself for her? Except that it wasn’t really for her, he realized, though that was part of it.

He touched the backs of a half dozen of his favorite books, not rare grimoires but heroes’ tales. It was his father who had caused this, and only Geoffrey ae’Magi’s son could put an end to his father’s evil once and for all—if Cain ae’Magison could stiffen his will to it.

He had always come to his books for the strength he needed to resist his father. So he had come here, to his collection of books that rested deep in the heart of a mountain in the Northlands, to find the strength to do the right thing.

He walked on through the rows of books, pausing here and there to set one straight until he reached his worktable. Not bothering with the chairs, he sat on the table itself, right next to the pair of books he’d retrieved from the ae’Magi’s castle. He touched a splatter of ink, remembering days not long past that he and Aralorn had worked there, searching through the books for just the right spell. He remembered the ink that stained her hand and the table as she scratched out notes in handwriting that was just short of illegible.

He remembered bringing her from his father’s dungeons more dead than alive, laying her still form on the couch, worrying that what he’d done for her wouldn’t be enough—that she would die and leave him alone again.

He remembered and wept where there was no one to see.

Aralorn fretted through dinner. Her theory was a fishing net with holes a sailing ship could get through.

She knew the story about Anslow was true. She’d had it from Ren the Mouse, who’d been a personal friend of the thief-taker. Was she wrong in thinking that the odd vision she’d had of Nevyn as a tree split down the middle meant he had no idea of what his darker half had done?

For that matter, why was she certain it was Nevyn? Kisrah might have depths she’d never seen. Why couldn’t he be the one who was dreamwalking? It was he who said that Geoffrey and Nevyn were the only ones who could dreamwalk. He might have lied. Maybe he and Nevyn were in it together.

Aralorn stared at the ceiling. Matters that had seemed so clear riding back from Ridane’s temple now seemed muddled. She really did not have enough evidence to know who was behind the Lyon’s bespelling—only that it was not Geoffrey.

“Aralorn, are you all right?” asked Irrenna.

Aralorn glanced up and realized that everyone was looking at her—obviously she’d missed something. Or maybe she’d been staring at the pickled eel on the flat of her knife for too long.

“Yes, sorry,” she answered. “Just tired.”

She set the black stuff back on her plate. Snake she could take or leave, but freshwater eel was beyond horrible—especially pickled. She vowed not to let herself get so distracted at mealtime again if the results could be so hazardous.

“I was asking you when you needed to be back at Sianim,” said Irrenna.

“Uhm.” She smiled. “I didn’t exactly take a formal leave of absence. Just left them a note. If they need me, they know where to find me.”

She would tell Wolf that she knew that it wasn’t Geoffrey, so he could take what precautions he could. When her father was back on his feet, they’d figure out the rest.

Wolf came back while she was getting ready for bed, surprising her by teleporting himself right into the room. She knew that he preferred to find somewhere private because the first few moments after he translocated, he was disoriented. He looked pale, but she thought it might just be the result of the spell.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“I have what I need,” he responded, swaying slightly where he stood.

He closed his eyes, and she ran to offer a supportive arm.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just dizzy.”

She was near enough to him to smell the familiar scent of the cave. “My nose tells me you’ve been to the Northlands. I thought you were going to check your father’s library.”

“My dear Aralorn,” he said, without opening his eyes, “a fair portion of my father’s library is in the cave.”

She laughed and hugged him, tucking her head against him in a manner that had become familiar.

“Did you find what you needed?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, tightening his arms until she squeaked.

“I figured out something, too,” she said.

“Oh?” He nuzzled at her neck, scratching her a little with the faint roughness of beard that was new-grown since that morning.

“Wolf, stop that—it tickles. It isn’t your father.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

He switched his attentions to her ear, and she shivered at the effect of his warm breath against her sensitive skin.

“He would—Wolf ...” She couldn’t speak for a moment.

“Hmm?”

“I asked Ridane’s priestess. She says he’s dead and not influencing anyone here.”

He stilled, then kissed the top of her head. “Smart.”

“Always,” she said smugly.

“I love you,” he said.

“Of course you do,” she said, to make him laugh—which it did. “I love you, too. Now you can kiss me.”

He bent down to her ear again, and whispered, “How long were you going to take before you told me that the priestess bound us together unto death?”

Now it was her turn to still. She felt guilty for half a breath, then she realized what his words really meant.

“How long have you known? Plague take you, Wolf.”

She tried to take a step away, but he held her too tightly. His breath seemed to be behaving oddly—then she realized he was laughing. She hit him—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to express her displeasure.

“Aralorn, Aralorn,” he tried to croon between laughs and pretending her halfhearted blows were hurting him. “Did you think I wouldn’t feel it when the priestess set a blood-bond between us? I am a black mage, my love. I understand about blood-bonds—and I can break them if I wish.”

“This one was set by a goddess,” she informed him.

“Maybe she could set a bond between us I could not break,” he told her. “But this one I could. If I wanted to.”

He lifted her off the floor to allow himself better access to her mouth—as well as various and sundry other sensitive areas. Aralorn caught her breath and braced her hands on his shoulders.

“I know you love me,” he told her, the laughter dying from his eyes.

She found herself blinking back tears as she heard how profoundly that knowledge had affected him.

“I know you love me, too,” she said, before her mouth was occupied by things other than speech.

Afterward, he slept. Snuggled tightly against him, Aralorn closed her eyes and wished she didn’t have to ask him to use the dark arts. He had tried to kill himself once rather than use them, but for her he would take the part he had been given. She didn’t know that she was worth it.

No good comes from black magic, Kisrah had said. Ridane’s priestess had told her that someone would die before long. Aralorn shivered and shifted closer to Wolf as if she could protect him by her presence.

It hadn’t been said, but the assumption Wolf had led them all to was that he would remove the spell tomorrow. Surely that would give the dreamwalker something to fret about.

Maybe he’d be walking again tonight.

She decided the best place to keep watch would be in Nevyn’s room. It might already be too late, but there was still a fair portion of the night left—and it had been about this time that she’d seen “Geoffrey” talking to Kisrah.

She started to slide out of bed.

“Aralorn?” Wolf sounded sleepy.

“I’m going spying for a couple of hours,” she said quietly, though he was already awake. She should have known that she couldn’t sneak out on him. “I have a few questions to clean up, and this might be my only chance to do it.”

He cupped her face in the darkness and pulled her until she rested her forehead on his for a moment. “All right,” he said. “Be careful.”

She tilted her face until her lips met his. “I will.”

She dressed in the dark, not bothering with shoes. Though, after a brief moment of thought, she grabbed her sword to go along with her knives. If she ended up facing an enraged sorcerer, she’d just as soon have Ambris’s help as not.

In the darkness, Wolf said softly, “I love you.”

Aralorn looked back, but the bed was too shadowed. She could distinguish nothing more than the shape of him in it. “I love you, too. See you in a few hours.”

“Yes,” he said.

He waited in the darkness and counted slowly to a hundred before getting to his feet. He dressed with care. He’d done many hard things in his life; in some ways this was not the worst. At least this time it was clearly the best answer for everyone.

He wished that he could postpone it, but he was unlikely to get another such opportunity soon. He’d been cudgeling his brain for a way to keep her away from him for long enough. Trust Aralorn to make things easy for him. He took his knife from his belt and tested it lightly against the ball of his thumb. A drop of dark liquid ran down the edge of his hand, and he licked it clean.

Aralorn was making her way up the stairs when a soft sound alerted her to someone else’s presence. She froze where she was, searching the darkness above her for any hint of movement. At last she saw a flash of lighter color where the minimal light touched the railing to the right of the stairway.

She darted up the stairs, blessing the stone under her feet for its silence—it was far more difficult to sneak up a wooden stairway. If she had been in a hall, she would have found a dark corner to hide in, but the stairway was too narrow for that. The best that she could hope for was to meet them at the top of the stairs.

She told herself that there was no reason to feel nervous about meeting someone walking the halls here, but she had been a spy for too long. Her instincts kept her on edge.

As she rounded the last stair, she came face-to-face with Gerem. He couldn’t have heard her, but he gave no evidence of surprise.

“Gerem?” she asked.

He frowned at her, but vaguely, as if he were concentrating on something else. “What are you doing here?” he asked, but without real interest.

“I was just going to ask you that.” There was something wrong with him, she thought. His words were soft and slurred as if he’d been drinking, though she smelled no alcohol when she leaned closer to him.

“Death walks here tonight,” he said, not at all dramatically, rather as if he were talking about grooming his horse.

An ice-cold chill swept up her spine, as much from his tone as from what he said. “Gerem, why don’t I take you to your room. Wouldn’t you like to go back to sleep?”

He nodded slowly. “I have to sleep.”

He took a step forward, forcing Aralorn down a step from the landing, giving him as much of an advantage in height as Falhart had over her.

Gently she took his arm and tried to turn him, stepping up as she did so. It was a move she often used on stubborn pack animals that refused to go where she wanted them; turning worked much better than pushing or pulling. “Your room is this way, brother mine. You can sleep there.”

He shook his head earnestly. “You don’t understand. I have to go to the stables.”

“The stables? What’s in the stables?”

He stopped tugging against her hold and bent down until his face was level with hers. “I killed Father,” he whispered.

“Stuff and nonsense, Gerem. Father is not dead.” She looked around for the nearest source of help. This wasn’t near anyone’s sleeping chambers—those were a floor above them. No one would hear her . . . But then she remembered that Irrenna had given Kisrah the Lyon’s library to sleep in.

“Kisrah!” she shouted, hoping her voice would penetrate the thick oak door.

“Let me go. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No more do I,” she muttered.

Gerem pulled a knife with a slow and awkward movement. Once he had it out, he held it as if he didn’t know what to do with it now that it was in his hand.

Misled by that and by his earlier claim of clumsiness, Aralorn tried a simple grab to relieve him of the weapon. She should have realized that the Lyon wouldn’t let any of his sons go without training. As smoothly as he must have done it a hundred times in practice, he caught her hand in his free one and used leverage to twist her around until her back was against him, her arms caught firmly by his off hand, and the cool edge of his knife laid against her throat.

Without the knife, she’d have gotten out of it easily enough—a former thief of the Trader Clans had taught her a number of interesting tricks—but the knife made any movement on her part highly stupid. Half-grown though he was, he was still stronger and bigger than she was—and better trained than she’d thought. She didn’t want him to grow to adulthood knowing that he’d killed his sister, so she remained very still.

“What are you going to do in the stables, Gerem?” she asked as unaggressively as possible. Give him some time to break the hold the dreamwalker has woven, she thought. Keep him talking.

“Sleep.” His arms relaxed a shade but not enough.

“Why do you need to sleep in the stables?” She kept her voice in big-sister-to-little-brother tones, not frightened-victim-with-knife-at-throat. If you reminded someone you were at their mercy too often, they just might decide to kill you and get it over with.

He tightened his grip. “I killed Father. Don’t you understand?”

Abruptly, he twisted, thrusting her at someone who’d been approaching from behind. She knocked the man flat and heard Gerem running down the stairs.

She swore like any guttersnipe and leapt to her feet, noting only peripherally that it was Kisrah she’d landed on.

Though instincts would have sent her tearing off after Gerem, she took the time to change. The goose would be faster gliding down the stairs than the icelynx would be since the stone offered no grip to claws.

“What the—” croaked Kisrah as he sat up in time to witness the last part of the change.

“After him,” she said, and took flight.

By now, Gerem was already down the stairs. He didn’t bother with the more polite methods of getting to the stables but threw the bolts on the shutters of a window and jumped through.

He’s going to break a leg doing that, thought Aralorn. The window might be waist high inside the keep, but it was better than half a story higher on the outside. Closing her wings, she darted through the open window after him.

Hurry, said the wind’s unwelcome voice. Death is waiting.

Let it wait, then, she thought.

She’d overshot Gerem and was close to the stables before she could turn around. Goose wings were meant for great sweeping turns, not falcon-quick maneuvering. Especially a domestic goose that had to work far too hard to fly. She started to turn back when she saw the howlaa.

It waited in front of the stables in the moonlit courtyard, the wind carrying its scent away from the sensitive noses of the horses in the stables. She thought about how unexpectedly the last howlaa had come upon her and wondered if it could control the wind and keep its scent from prey.

The dead one’s mate, said the wind, as clearly as if someone were whispering into her ears. Dream-called and hungry for blood.

Closer, she could see differences between this one and the one she’d killed before. Its mane was longer and darker, with red as well as yellow tints. Its eyes, though, were the same, crystal so deep she could drown in its depths.

Spelled, she thought. It had magic to compel its victims to meet its eyes. It wasn’t just stupidity on her part that had let her be caught by the first howlaa.

Called by the howlaa, she let herself get too close. Only when it moved was she able to break the hold of its eyes. It rose to its hind legs with lethal swiftness and struck. Aralorn tucked her wings and dove to the ground, avoiding the crushing blow by a margin so slim as to be nonexistent.

The wind laughed alternately in thunderous then high tones that hurt her ears. Wind-touched, it said. Howlaa bait. How could you think to approach it unnoticed?

Gerem ran into the courtyard. He dropped his knife and looked at the howlaa. It returned his look, freezing him where he stood. Ignoring Aralorn, it took a step forward, then cried out in the chilling, whining tones she’d heard before.

Alone, so alone without the harmonies its mate provided. She wanted to find the one who brought them to this cursed place and rip his mind away, but the caller was too strong and could not be disobeyed. This child must die first.

Aralorn launched herself from the ground, changing in midflight to her own human form. When she dropped, she landed on the howlaa, much as she had its mate—and this time she had Ambris instead of her knives.

But the howlaa dropped as soon as Aralorn touched her, rolling agilely on the cold ground, making Aralorn scramble to get off it in time without coming within reach of the creature’s talons. She wasn’t wholly successful.

Blood poured down her arm as she backed away rapidly, and she’d lost Ambris; the sword lay on the ground behind the howlaa. It was easily within Gerem’s reach, but her brother hadn’t moved since he’d come to the courtyard. The howlaa stood between Aralorn and her brother—between Aralorn and the sword.

Well, she thought wryly, at least she had its attention. Without a weapon, she wasn’t going to hold its attention long—not unless it was hungry. But—there was help in the stables. She gave a long, shrill whistle as she backed up one slow step, then another.

She was grateful for every second she’d shaved off the time it took to change to icelynx form, for as soon as the howlaa realized what she was doing, it charged.

Aralorn’s vision was still trying to adjust to the difference between human and cat when the howlaa was upon her. She barely managed to avoid the howlaa’s swipe by running underneath it and out the other side. This put her on the right side of the howlaa to retrieve her sword if she wanted to take human form. She hesitated and decided not to risk changing again. It was just possible that the icelynx would have a better chance than a human bearing a sword. As soon as the thought occurred to her, she changed.

She shook her head and tried to ignore the lingering itches and tingles the shift had left her. Tension caused her to yowl irritably at her bulky foe—between its noise and hers, they were going to have the entire keep out here soon. Not that it would be a bad thing to have a few more people to help with the howlaa.

She and the wind demon paced back and forth, Aralorn keeping between the howlaa and its intended prey. That the howlaa didn’t just attack was a hopeful sign. She hadn’t been absolutely certain that howlaas were vulnerable to the poison of an icelynx bite, but the larger animal’s caution gave her hope. She was careful to avoid looking the howlaa in the eye, watching instead for the slight tensing of muscles that would presage a charge.

She had no illusions about her chances for survival. Thank the gods, she thought, that Wolf can break Ridane’s bond if I happen to get my stupid self killed.

Kisrah, who must have taken a safer route through a door, entered the courtyard wearing only a pair of light-colored sleeping pants. When he saw the howlaa, he stopped.

“Aralorn. Which one are you?” he asked urgently.

The sound of his voice seemed to release Gerem from the howlaa’s hold, but instead of running, he took two steps forward.

Sensing Aralorn’s distraction, the howlaa chose that moment to close. It mewled as it ran, somehow a much more chilling sound than the roar of a bear or lion. Aralorn was forced to engage to keep it away from the two unarmed men.

She tried to leap on the howlaa’s back again, but her weakened shoulder betrayed her, and she stumbled at the last minute, rolling frantically under the beast. She thought later that the stumble had saved her life, for the great jaws just missed closing on her back.

Instead, the howlaa caught her with its paw instead, but it hadn’t had room to put much force behind the blow. It hurt, though, landing right on top of the bruises Falhart had left on her back that afternoon. The blow, relatively light as it was, sent her rolling farther under the howlaa.

While the howlaa scrambled to back away, where its size and power better offset her speed, Aralorn used her claws on the icy ground to gain her feet, then launched herself at the nearest vulnerable place she could find. Her fangs sank through the heavy coat that protected its ribs and into the howlaa’s side.

The howlaa shook itself wildly, trying to dislodge her, but it only succeeded in driving her teeth in deeper. Aralorn felt the throbbing of the glands beneath her eyeteeth as they pumped poison deep into the howlaa’s flesh. Unfortunately, it was too far from any major artery to kill swiftly.

The howlaa was almost as fast as the icelynx, and ten times its weight; it was only luck that had allowed her to last this long against it.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, the howlaa dropped to its side, crushing her beneath it. The weight of the howlaa kept her from breathing properly, and she grew dizzy with lack of air. A dull thud sounded in Aralorn’s ears, and the howlaa’s body heaved at the same time.

With a shriek of rage, the howlaa came to its feet, but it didn’t move as swiftly as it had before—neither did Aralorn, for that matter. The wind demon’s cry was answered with a stallion’s high-pitched scream as Sheen, called by Aralorn’s whistle, attacked the howlaa again, teeth bared and front feet flying. Relentless and fearless, the stallion drove the creature away from Aralorn.

On her feet again, Aralorn ran—or rather, hobbled—for her sword. She was glad that she’d been working with Halven, because she wasn’t altogether certain she could have shifted back to human form in the shape she was in without the extra potency that being better centered gave her. She’d done all the damage the lynx could manage; her right arm was too weak to maintain a four-footed attack. She hadn’t had time to take a close look at the damage the howlaa had done to her shoulder, and battle heat kept her from noticing the pain—but, considering the speed with which she had lost strength, she was afraid that it was worse than she had thought.

Exhaustion washed over her in waves as she completed her fourth shift. She noticed, almost absently, that Kisrah was struggling with Gerem and that there were other people in the stableyard now. She took Ambris in her good left hand and turned back to the fight.

A normal horse wouldn’t have stood a chance against such an opponent, but Sheen was war-trained and iron shod. His winter shoes were rough-bottomed like a file for better grip on ice and snow, and the damage they inflicted when propelled by a ton of battle-maddened stallion was not inconsiderable. He was canny, too, taking care to avoid the front end of the howlaa when he could.

Aralorn found the energy somewhere to run, keeping clear of Sheen’s line of attack. The horse sported a dark slash down his ribs, but in the darkness she couldn’t see how bad it was. Squealing, he spun and kicked with his hind legs, but missed because the howlaa collapsed abruptly. Both Aralorn and Sheen drew to a halt, watching the creature warily. Its ribs rose once, twice, then stopped.

The icelynx’s poison, thought Aralorn in relief, allowing her sword tip to drop.

“It’s all right, Sheen,” she crooned to the snorting stallion, knowing her voice would calm him faster than anything else. “It’s dead now.”