Wolfsbane

THIRTEEN

Wolf stood just inside the curtain of the bier room and wove a thin layer of darkness so that a casual observer would not see the light around the edges of the heavy fabric and realize that there was someone in the room with the Lyon. Green magic rose to his desire, if not his call, and the spell thickened with other magics to conceal his presence.

Wolf waited, but when the lingering magic dissipated and did not return, he took on human form, called his staff, and used it to light the room. He walked to the Lyon and ran his fingers lightly over the still face.

Aralorn had always laughed about how little she resembled the rest of the family, but Wolf could see the strong line of her jaw and the arrangement of her features in her father’s face. Take away the coloring and the size difference, and it was easy to tell that the Lyon was her sire. His skin was cool under Wolf’s touch.

“This is your last night of rest, my lord,” Wolf murmured aloud. “I hope your dreaming was pleasant.”

He took off his belt pouch and emptied the contents, mostly chalks, ink, and quills, on the bier next to the Lyon. It would take some time to set the spells that would undo the Lyon’s binding.

Aralorn walked around the howlaa’s body, murmuring a soft reassurance to her stallion. After a long moment, Sheen lost his battle stance and nuzzled her hard enough to knock her back several steps. She examined the cuts in his side and sighed with relief. They were shallow, and the bleeding was already slowing. He wouldn’t be carrying a saddle for several days, but she thought if the cuts were cleaned and doctored, that would be the worst of it.

Aralorn was torn between the dictates of a lifetime of training—tend to your horse first—and the knowledge that Gerem was still in danger. She compromised by turning Sheen into a small empty pen beside the stables and promising him better care as soon as she was done.

The wind had shifted direction, bringing the scent of the dead howlaa through the stables. Horses thumped and whinnied, bringing grooms running to stand gawking over the body of the howlaa.

Aralorn avoided them all and hurried to where Kisrah had Gerem pinned, picking up Ambris along the way and sheathing her.

“He’s been trying for his knife,” said Kisrah, as soon as she was within conversation range. “Seeing how anxious he was to go for the howlaa, I thought the knife might be an equally bad idea.”

“Can you hold him for a bit more?” she asked. “I’ll go for Nevyn.”

Kisrah looked relieved. “Good thought. Nevyn’s a dreamwalker. He will know how to help your brother. I’ll enlist one of the stableboys—who seem to be finally figuring out something is going on out here—and take him up to Nevyn’s rooms if you’ll go ahead of us and tell him what to expect.”

“Right,” said Aralorn, not bothering to address Kisrah’s assumption that Nevyn was the cure rather than the cause for Gerem’s condition. Kisrah had, by saving her brother, provided her satisfactory proof that he wasn’t involved any deeper than he had claimed. Gerem would be safe with Kisrah.

She left them there, pushing herself to run though her shoulder protested the pounding gait. She had to go the long way around on her own human feet; she couldn’t jump back through the window in human form, and she wasn’t up to any more shapeshifting for a while.

As she had hoped, Kisrah had come out the nearest side door—one that was usually kept bolted, so at least she didn’t have to run halfway around the keep. She heard a few people stirring, awakened by the commotion by the stable, but she didn’t see anyone as she came upon the door to her rooms.

She should stop and get Wolf for backup. She stopped before the door and put a hand on it. Wolf could handle Nevyn if Aralorn couldn’t persuade him with her words.

Unfortunately, she was under no illusion about what Wolf would do to anyone who tried to hurt her. If she gave him some time to cool down, to understand—if there was something to understand—then he would act as reason dictated. But in the heat of the initial discovery . . . it was safer for everyone if she went at this alone.

She took her hand off the door and continued on.

Nevyn and Freya had rooms a floor above the hall where she’d found Gerem. Aralorn didn’t bother to knock as she walked in.

The first thing she saw was Freya sleeping soundly on the bed, her peaceful features revealed by the flickering light of the fireplace.

The sound of the door opening hadn’t disturbed Nevyn either: He was waiting for her in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace from the bed. The firelight illuminated one side of his face clearly, while the other lay in shadows.

“I thought you might come,” he said softly. Then, seeing her glance at her sleeping sister, he said, “Don’t worry, she’s sleeping until morning.”

The sound of his voice sent a chill of unease coursing through her veins. Nevyn spoke Rethian with a thick Darranian accent she’d never heard him use.

“Let Gerem go, Nevyn,” she said.

“You aren’t beautiful,” he said, as if she had never spoken at all. “What magic do you work that holds a man to you like that? Ten years, and the thought of seeing you was more important than punishing him for killing Geoffrey. Geoffrey, who was my teacher, my creator—giving me life and understanding when Nevyn would have seen me dead.”

“Punishing Wolf?” she asked.

He nodded jerkily. Even in the dimly lit room, Aralorn could see the flush that swept up his cheeks as he abruptly leaned forward, every muscle in his body tightening. His voice, in stark contrast to his posture, was soft and slow. “How could you take up with him? We waited and waited for you to come home. Then Geoffrey died, and I found out you’d taken his killer as your lover.”

“How did you find out?” she asked.

Nevyn took a deep breath in through his nose. “Geoffrey told me when he told me that Cain killed him. Cain is evil, don’t you understand?”

He could have found out about her relationship with Cain while he was dreamwalking, she thought.

“Cain did not kill Geoffrey,” Aralorn told him. “What he knows about black magic, Geoffrey taught him—as he taught you.”

Nevyn shook his head. “No. Geoffrey was good. He helped me. It was Cain . . . in the night while Nevyn slept. I saw—I saw it all. Night after night, he called me to perform for me and to teach me . . . I showed you it all, I gave you dreams so that you would know what he was. What I did.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What he forced me to do.”

“I don’t remember,” she said. “I only dreamed of Wolf.” But after she said it, she wondered if it was really true. The story, Nevyn’s story, had come to her so completely while she was riding back from Ridane’s temple—could she have come up with it from some half-remembered dreams?

“You only kept dreams of him,” said Nevyn, his voice dark and ugly. “You’re just a shapeshifting, magic-tainted whore. I’ve told him and told him, but he loves you. Loves you when he hates his magic, hates me because he can’t quit using his magic, can’t give me up altogether.”

He laughed slyly. “But you ruined it the first time he saw the two of you together. It took him a long time to realize that your wolf was Cain—but then, Nevyn was always a little slow.”

“You are Nevyn,” she said, but he ignored her.

“He sent the howlaa then, on impulse. Then he worried and worried until it was killed. Stupid sod forgot that he needs Cain to free the Lyon. If the Lyon is harmed, he’ll never believe it wasn’t his fault.”

“You knew enough about black magic to set the spell,” she said, changing the subject, because it didn’t seem helpful to try to argue with this shade of Nevyn about Nevyn’s guilt or innocence. “Why can’t you unwork it yourself?”

“If he’d succeeded in killing Cain, I could tell Nevyn enough about it to work the spell—but he’d never be able to do it. No stomach for it, I’m afraid. Kisrah might do it, but he doesn’t love the Lyon enough.” He sounded both amused and exasperated.

“Why try to kill Gerem?” asked Aralorn.

“The spell needs a human death,” he said. “Gerem is already tainted by magic, and I needed someone whom Nevyn could see dead. I couldn’t leave the choice to Cain. But I don’t need Gerem anymore.” As he spoke the last word, he came up out of the chair and struck with the sword that he’d held in the shadows.

She saw his intention in his face an instant before he moved, so she threw herself backward, and his blade missed.

Swords, she thought as she stumbled to catch her balance. Plague it, why does it always have to be swords? She dodged another slice as she pulled Ambris.

It was obvious from the first blow who the better swordsman was, and it wasn’t Aralorn. He had been good when she left, and he obviously hadn’t quit practicing. He might even give Wolf a run for his money. She caught the edge of his blade on Ambris and let it slide off.

Even if she’d been able to use her good arm, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. Even if she’d been an excellent swordswoman, she would have had a problem: She was using Ambris. She didn’t want to hurt Nevyn at all—she certainly didn’t want to steal his magic. She wasn’t certain that was what would happen—Nevyn wasn’t trying for godhood as Geoffrey had been. But that was the trouble with ancient artifacts—no one really knew what they did.

There was a game she knew, one her uncle taught her, called Taefil Ma Deogh, Steal the Dragon. Strategy and skill were necessary, but it was deviousness that determined who won and who lost. The last time Aralorn stayed with her mother’s people, she had beaten her uncle eight times out of ten.

Devious, she thought, parrying furiously. Do the unexpected.

She turned and ran—out the door, down the hall to the nearest empty room, and through the doorway. The room was dark, which suited Aralorn just fine. She slid Ambris into a tall, narrow vase, where she wouldn’t be immediately obvious.

Nevyn’s sprinting footsteps were almost at the door as she gathered herself together for another shapechange. She was too weak, too many changes with too little rest between.

Gasping a little, she centered herself and tried again. Pain seared her from toes to fingertips, but as his form appeared in the doorway, she slipped into the shape of a mouse. She huddled just behind the door as he came into the room, called a magelight, and looked briefly around. She waited until he left, then scampered out the door and back to his bedroom.

Wolf finished the last of the painstakingly drawn ink lines on the Lyon’s face. When he was through, he looked over all of his work carefully, for he wouldn’t get a second chance. Satisfied that all was in order, he took out his knife. He should sever the bond he shared with Aralorn before he started, but the chances were too great that she’d find him before he was done. He had to wait until the last moment.

He slid the sharp blade sideways across one wrist. Touching the tip of a fresh quill pen into the dark liquid that pooled in his wound, he began painstakingly retracing the inked lines with blood.

In Nevyn’s room, Aralorn shifted once more to human shape, shaking and shuddering when she was done. If she survived this night, it would be days before she could do so much as light a candle with magic.

She could hear him searching for her, quick footsteps, doors opening quietly. Her heart settled; the sweat dried; and, after a few moments, the pain of overusing her magic receded except for a nagging headache.

She found a likely ambush spot, just inside his door. She was counting on him to believe she would have gone for help rather than come back to face him on her own.

He neared the door, making no attempt at stealth, and Aralorn breathed as silently as she could. He walked in confidently; his first glance fell to the bed. That was all the opening she needed.

With a war cry designed to make him start, she leapt to his back and wrapped one arm around his neck and grabbed the elbow of her opposite arm. This locked the bones of her forearms against the arteries that carried blood to his brain. The mercenaries called it a “nighty-night,” and, if she could hold it for a count of fifteen, Nevyn should drop unconscious. The first five counts would be the telling ground because after that, he would get weaker fast. Surprise counted for two, then he slammed her against the edge of the door.

She held on, ignoring the pain for the moment, though she knew that she was going to have a vertical bruise to go with the horizontal one Falhart had given her with his quarterstaff. The second time Nevyn slammed her back, it hurt worse because he managed to catch her howlaa-wounded shoulder on the door, so she bit his ear to distract him. He tried to twist away and stumbled, which would have been all right except that it gave him an idea that she would rather he not have thought of.

He threw himself backward on the floor, and the air left her lungs with a faint hint of protest.

Twelve, she thought.

He managed to bring his shoulders up and smash her head onto the floor.

Fourteen, plague it, go to sleep.

He repeated his previous move with such success that Aralorn was starting to feel woozy herself. Luckily, it was the last one he made.

Lying under him, she waited to catch her breath before sending Nevyn into a more lasting sleep with the dregs of her magic. She’d never have been able to do it with him awake.

Should have just hit him over the head, she thought when she was finished, and touched her bottom lip gently with her tongue to inspect that damage he’d wrought with the back of his head, so there’s a chance I’d have killed him. I could have lived with that.

“Aralorn?”

Nevyn’s body blocked her view of the door, but she knew Kisrah’s voice.

“I suspect she’s under him somewhere, but she’s small enough that it might take us a while to find her,” observed Gerem a bit shakily.

“Ha-ha,” she said coldly. “Never tease a person who knows enough about you for blackmail.”

“Never get grumpy with someone you need to help drag bodies off you,” replied her brother, sounding somewhat calmer after ascertaining that Nevyn was still alive. “What have you done to Nevyn—and why hasn’t Freya woken up?”

“Sleep spell—not mine. I did Nevyn, though,” she replied, then allowed a touch of whine to her voice. “Want to lever Nevyn off before we have a long conversation? I need to find Wolf and see if he can get a message to my uncle and get him here before Nevyn wakes up. It might also be nice to breathe.”

“Aralorn?” asked a third voice, right on cue. “You were looking for me?”

Kisrah and Gerem between them managed to drag poor Nevyn off to the side.

“I should have known that you couldn’t resist sticking around when things were about to get interesting, Uncle,” said Aralorn, sitting up gingerly: Her head hurt, her back hurt, and her shoulder felt as if she’d been clawed by a howlaa and beaten against the door a couple of times.

“Actually,” he replied, “I was looking for you. I’ve talked to a few of our elders, and they say that there is no way a dead dreamwalker could do the kinds of things you think Geoffrey ae’Magi has done. I stopped by your room first, but no one was there, so I came here instead.”

“It wasn’t Geoffrey; it was Nevyn,” said Aralorn.

“Nevyn?” asked Gerem, sounding hostile. “Nevyn would never hurt Father.”

“Who are you?” asked Kisrah.

“Kisrah, meet my uncle Halven—he’s a shapeshifter who’s been trying to help. Uncle Halven, this is Kisrah, the current ae’Magi.” Introductions done, she continued without taking a breath. “Nevyn has a problem,” she said, then stopped. There had to be a way to explain without sounding like a madwoman. Her weak sleep spell wasn’t going to keep him under much longer. She had to make them believe her before he awoke.

“Nevyn is ill,” said Kisrah, kneeling beside Aralorn. He patted the sleeping man’s shoulder gently. “If I’d thought that he would have harmed anyone but himself, I never would have sent him here. He was half-mad when we took him from Santik. I’d hoped he’d settle down with me, but he was too damaged. I thought that this was the perfect place for him; he’s seemed happy since he came here.”

“Part of him is,” said Aralorn. “But there is a part of him that is not.”

“There is an unusual separation of his spirit,” observed her uncle.

“I think that the part of him that dreamwalks has separated itself almost completely,” Aralorn said. “He was talking about himself as if he were two different people.”

“I’ve heard that green mages are great healers,” said Kisrah diffidently. “Is there anything that you can do to help him?”

He’d taken the right tone; Halven preened before the respect in the Archmage’s voice. “Since I can see the damage, I might be able to do something,” he said. Graciously, he half bowed to Aralorn. “I think you’re right. It’s the dreamwalking part of him that has split off from his spirit. What is broken can be mended together again—as long as the cause for the break is gone.”

“Santik is dead, and so is Geoffrey,” said Aralorn in answer.

She got to her feet and backed away so that Halven and Kisrah could have free access to Nevyn.

It was over, she thought. Nevyn had been certain that Wolf could free her father. But as his words came back to her, the relief she’d been feeling stopped.

“Human death,” she said.

The two mages were involved in their discussion over Nevyn, but Gerem said, “What?”

Halven had said Wolf hadn’t been in her room.

“Gods,” she said. And she’d been so grateful there were no more secrets between them while she was fighting the howlaa because after her probable demise, Wolf would know exactly how she had felt about him. She could see now how careful he’d been to clear up any misunderstanding that might lie between them, any regrets or doubts that she might have.

If Nevyn knew that it would take a human sacrifice, Wolf did as well.

“Aralorn?” Gerem touched her arm. “What is it?”

Wolf knew, and, like Nevyn, he’d chosen a sacrifice. If Nevyn had realized just who Wolf had picked, he wouldn’t have tried to kill Gerem.

“He told me three times,” she said softly. “He said he loved me, three times.”

“Aralorn?” asked Gerem again.

She didn’t bother to answer but bolted out the door and sprinted down the hall. She took the stairs in leaping strides, ignoring the danger of falling, ignoring the pain in her shoulder, which throbbed in time with her steps.

The great hall was dark, and there was no sign of light behind the alcove curtain, but Aralorn felt the richness of magic at work.

She threw back the curtains and stepped into the darkness, only then feeling the wrongness of the power. It slid across her skin like thick, filthy oil. A moment later, the full effect of the tainted magic hit her as strongly as any fear spell she’d ever felt, leaving her unable to take a step forward for the sheer terror of what lay ahead.

It didn’t feel like a fear spell, though, so she had no antidote for its effects. Perhaps it was a side effect of the magic Wolf was working. As she hesitated in the darkness, fighting the urge to turn tail and run, she could feel the surge of power, and the corruption of the magic grew stronger.

“Deathsgate and back, Wolf,” she said, managing to put one foot in front of the other once, then again, until she stood on the far side of the darkness. “I warned you.”

He stood behind her father, who was covered with markings. Wolf’s scarred face was almost as masklike as the silver one. He touched the side of the Lyon’s face with the first finger of each hand as his macabre voice chanted words in a language she’d never heard. His staff, balanced upright on the claws on its base, glowed radiantly from just behind his right shoulder. Lights and shadows fought for his face so it was unevenly illuminated.

The scent of blood and herbs was neither unpleasant nor pleasurable. It was much hotter than it should have been in a stone room in the winter, and the heat and strong scent combined to make her almost dizzy.

He hadn’t noticed her come in, but she wasn’t surprised. The worst thing a human wizard can do is lose control of a spell, so most of them had incredible powers of concentration—she would have expected no less of Wolf.

Relief swept her briefly at the sight of him still standing, breaking the hold of terror. Her thoughts clear for the first time since she entered the room, she saw the runes that covered the bier and the floor around it. Runes in herbs and chalk and char, but too many of them were drawn in blood.

She looked up swiftly to note how pale his skin was where it was not scarred, and she knew where the blood had come from. His voice rose hoarsely, and the magic surged as he called; it was so strong, her skin tingled, and so foul, she wanted to vomit.

Wolf pulled his hands away from her father, and she saw the dark wound on his wrist. The slowness of the bleeding told its own story, though Wolf should have been unconscious before he lost so much blood. Or dead.

“No! Plague take you, Wolf!” she said, and ran, ignoring the runes she destroyed on her way, ignoring the knowledge that by breaking his concentration, she could destroy herself and her father as well.

She broke his focus, and he looked up. For a moment, she had a clear view of his scarred face, then the light from his staff went out. She caught him as he fell—as they fell—cushioning his head against her. She grabbed his sticky wrist and wrapped her hand around it, sealing the wound with her own flesh, but his skin was colder than it should be in a room this warm.

In her heightened state, she could feel the wild magic he’d called reach for him, could feel his life fading. She had no time for panic; instead, she drew in a deep, calming breath and centered herself . . .

Kisrah watched Gerem follow Aralorn out of the room. He’d overheard enough to have a pretty good idea of where they were going—especially since, once he looked for it, he could feel magic taking shape somewhere in the keep.

Kisrah wasn’t certain that it wouldn’t be better if Wolf didn’t survive. No matter that Kisrah was virtually convinced that Aralorn was right to claim that Geoffrey was a villain. It did not take away the fact that Wolf knew black magic and carried its taint. By Wolf’s own admission, the Master Spells had not allowed Geoffrey to control him—and even if they had, the Master Spells were gone.

If he followed her, he would be forced to choose—to help Wolf or to kill him; so he chose to stay with Nevyn while Aralorn’s uncle tried to heal him.

“This damage had been mostly scarred over once,” the shapechanger said, finally looking up from Nevyn. “And only recently torn asunder. Violently.”

“Can you heal him?”

But Halven was looking around the room. “Where is Aralorn?”

“Rescuing Wolf,” Kisrah said.

Halven gave him a sharp glance but turned back to Nevyn. “I can mend the surface,” he said. “That ought to give Nevyn control over his dreamwalking self—probably return him to where he was before this most recent damage. True healing of such an old hurt will take a very long time, but it can be done.”

“If he’ll let you try,” said Kisrah. “He’s stubborn, and his life has not made him fond of magic.”

Halven’s eyes grew cold. “After the damage he’s done here, he’ll accept my healing, or I’ll kill him myself. Henrick is a friend of mine.”

“Nevyn is my friend,” said Kisrah in warning.

The shapeshifter’s mouth turned up, but his eyes did not warm. “Let me do what I can for him now, then. You go help Aralorn—there’s something going on in the bier room. Can you feel it?”

Caught, Kisrah hesitated. “Yes.”

“Go,” said Halven. “This will be easier without you here.”

But not easier for me, Kisrah thought. He would have to choose.

Halven waited for the door to swing shut behind the Archmage before turning again to his patient. The quiet was helpful but not necessary. Once he knew what had to be done, it was not difficult: A spirit was not meant to be divided. All he had to do was provide the magic to assist the weaving.

It did not take long before it was done as well as magic could make it. Only time would completely heal the rift. When he was finished, he waved his hand, and Nevyn’s eyelids fluttered.

Nevyn opened his eyes.

“Welcome back, sir,” said Halven, not unkindly. “I think we may have much to discuss.”

Nevyn rolled to a sitting position and buried his face in both hands. “It was me,” he said. “It was me all along.”

Aralorn held Wolf’s wrist tightly in one hand, sealing the wound, though she feared it was too late. With her free hand, she touched the artery in his neck. For a horrible moment, she thought that he had no pulse, but then she felt the faint beat beneath her fingertips.

He’d been holding to consciousness with magic, she thought. When she’d distracted him, he’d lost control of the power sustaining him and fainted.

They should both be dead. She’d broken the cardinal rule of magic and interrupted Wolf. His spell should have turned this corner of Lambshold into a melted slag like the tower in the ae’Magi’s castle.

It had not.

She was so weary. If she’d been a human mage, she would have had to watch Wolf die. But there was so much power in the room that the warmth of it strengthened her.

Most of the power was in the spell that awaited some missing component to act: Wolf’s death. Aralorn could feel the magic coerced and caged into some shape of Wolf’s devising, but it was human born, and she could not touch it. But flickering around the spell like a candle flame in the wind was other power, a latticework of green magic that held the spell at bay: Wolf’s magic protecting her still.

Someone came into the room, and a last vestige of caution made her look up for an instant and see Gerem stagger through the spell of darkness and silence that covered the curtain to the bier room. In that moment of inattention, when she strayed from her center, Ridane’s bond stretched tight.

Aralorn cried out at the pain and drove her fingers into Wolf’s shoulder and wounded wrist.

“Don’t you leave me, you bastard.” She gritted out the words, and called his green magic to her.

Even though she was careful to leave enough magic to hold Wolf’s spell, power flooded her, filling her veins with icy fire and making it difficult to breathe. She couldn’t tell where the pain was coming from now, from the too-great magic that had answered her call or from the death goddess’s binding that stretched taut and thin between them.

She had no idea what she was doing.

She bowed down and pressed her forehead against his too-cool flesh. She fed him magic at first, but it flowed through him and back into her without leaving any virtue behind. It was his magic, and he’d called it to save her, not himself.

She growled deep in her throat. “Not yet,” she said. “I’ll not lose you to your own stubbornness.”

She took the magic and twisted it until it was attached to her, then thrust it back into him like a needle pulling her life force through him.

“Wolf,” she murmured, touching his unresponsive lips, “don’t you die on me.”

She could feel that his pulse had steadied with the force she’d added, but she could feel, too, that it wasn’t going to be enough. Remembering how she had touched her father’s life, she began singing to aid her work. She hadn’t consciously chosen the song, and was almost amused when she realized it was a rather lewd drinking song—so be it. If anyone knew how to fight off the cold thought of death, it was a bunch of drunken mercenaries.

The music soon soothed her into a trance that allowed her to seep into the pattern of Wolf’s death. With more need than skill, she followed Wolf’s spirit where it lingered, held by thin traces of life.

Recklessly, she threw energy to his fading spirit, to anchor him to his body, using his own magic to do it. She found the bond the death goddess had drawn between them and gripped it like a rope to pull him to her, only to find it gripped in return as Wolf, free from reason and memory, helped her at last.

She came out of her trance slowly, gradually becoming aware of Wolf’s head in her lap, the unusual warmth of the stones beneath her, and the wild, surging magic that filled the room.

“Crap,” she said. She’d called upon too much magic and released the power that had been bound in Wolf’s spell.

She swung her gaze around to look for the reason that the walls were still standing. Kisrah stood before the darkness that was the entrance to the room. His feet were braced and his arms held wide. Gerem stood just behind him, gripping his shoulder with one hand in a position that even Aralorn recognized as “feeding.”

“Wolf?” she said, shaking him with her good arm. “Wolf, wake up.”

“Good idea,” muttered Kisrah, “We’re not going to be able to hold this back much longer.”

Aralorn took the hint and quit being so gentle. “Wolf,” she barked with force enough to please a drill sergeant. “You’ve got to wake up, love. We need you.”

He stirred this time and opened his eyes, frowning at her in puzzlement. He started to speak, and his eyes widened as his senses told him what was going on.

“Gods,” he growled, sitting up a little too abruptly.

She caught him before he could fall back and held him while he closed his eyes against the dizzying weakness of extreme blood loss. Since his weight hit her bad arm with a certain amount of force, she was feeling a bit dizzy herself.

“What did you think you were doing?” he rasped. “You know better than to interrupt a spell in progress.”

“Hmm,” she agreed. “Deathsgate and back, remember? You shouldn’t have tried this.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Kisrah politely, though his voice sounded a little strained. “Not to break in on a personal moment or anything, but do you suppose you could give me a little advice, Wolf?”

“Hmm,” said Wolf. “I suppose ‘run’ won’t work?”

Kisrah laughed, which was a mistake.

Power lit the room with a faint red haze, and the temperature went from warm to hot in an instant. Aralorn felt the surge in magic so strong that it hurt. The smell of scorching cloth filled the room, and the stones gave off an odd grumbling noise. Sweat gathered on Kisrah’s face, and Gerem was looking almost as drained as Kisrah.

“Your magic held it in check while you were unconscious,” said Aralorn urgently. “Green magic, Wolf. Can you call it again?”

In answer, green magic slid over her skin in a caress, then spilled over the imminent spell like oil over boiling water. Gently, it worked its way between the spell and Kisrah’s magic.

Wolf vibrated in her arms, shaking with the control that it took not to fight for domination over the green magic.

“What in the name of ...” murmured Kisrah, relaxing his stance. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Green magic,” replied Wolf in a strained voice. “It scares me, too. But I think it will work.”

“ ‘Think’?”

Wolf’s scarred lips writhed into a semblance of a smile. “Would you rather I said ‘hope’?”

As Wolf took up the reins of the magic, Kisrah relaxed and ran his hands through his hair, leaving it an untidy mess. Actually, thought Aralorn with exhaustion-born whimsy, he looked quite different from his usual self, his lemon-colored sleeping trousers setting off pale skin stretched over a swordsman’s muscles, his feet bare.

“Now what do we do?” he asked.

“Well,” said Wolf, “at this stage the spell can’t be banished, for it has already been given a taste of that which was promised. Can you feel the hunger? So what we do is bring it into completion.” He turned to Aralorn, who was already shaking her head, but she was too weak to do anything more. “I love you, dear heart. If you love me as well, you’ll allow me this. Someone must die tonight—I won’t allow my father to kill again and not do something about it.”

He held her gaze with his own until tears slid down her cheeks.

“Ridane said someone had to die,” said Aralorn. “This is what she meant, wasn’t it? The nature of the spell laid on Father is such that either he dies, or someone else does. I didn’t bring you back for this, Wolf.”

His eyes warmed, and he touched her face. “If you hadn’t brought me back, my love, Ridane’s bond would have taken you with me. I should have severed it before I started the spell—I waited too late. I didn’t want to lose you.”

He dropped his hands, leaving her cold and alone. “This was laid upon your father because of me; should he die for my sins?”

“Not your sins,” returned Aralorn heatedly. “Your father’s sins.”

“No,” said Nevyn from the doorway. “My sins.”

The darkness that had blocked the door was gone, banished by Nevyn, or perhaps her uncle, who stood behind him. Nevyn’s face was grim and pale.

“I have allowed myself to be used,” he said. “I allowed Geoffrey to twist my thoughts until I have become what my father thought I was.”

He stepped forward until he stood before Wolf, facing him. “I thought that it was you who was corrupt, who needed destroying—instead, I find that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for a man you barely know. Evil corrupted me; it has tempered you.”

He turned to Aralorn and crouched in front of her.

“Sister,” he said softly, so quietly that she knew that no one else in the room heard exactly what he said. “Story-Spinner, weave a good one for Freya when she wakes—that she will honor the father of the child she carries, for its sake.”

Exhaustion made Aralorn’s thoughts slow. She was preoccupied with keeping Wolf alive, and it made her slow.

When Nevyn surged to his feet, and told Wolf, “Use this,” she finally caught on. “Nevyn, wait.” But it was already too late.

Nevyn called upon his magic and was engulfed in flames so hot that his flesh melted from his bones like water.

“Wolf?” said Aralorn in a voice she hardly recognized, so thickened was it from grief. But there was a real possibility, given Wolf’s reluctance to use black magic, that he would refuse Nevyn’s sacrifice.

But it was Kisrah who said, “Don’t let him die in vain, Wolf.”

Wolf hesitated, torn between the horror of using yet another person’s death to fuel his magic and the desires of the man who had given his life for his convictions.

“Please,” whispered Aralorn, tears of grief sliding down her face.

He dropped his knife and lifted his arms, drawing the power of Nevyn’s death to him. He waited for the filth to settle on his soul, but the death magic rested quietly within his grasp, as if a dead man’s blessing had the ability to wipe clean the foul work to which Wolf had been put.

The respite was brief, for as he willed it, the hold that had kept the spell in abeyance began to fade slowly, allowing Wolf to take control of one part before releasing another. No benediction could wash away the evil of the black art that comprised the spell, and Wolf shook under the force of it even as he threaded death magic through it in completion.

The spell pulsed wildly for a moment before concentrating upon the still form of the Lyon, then, as swiftly as the flight of a hawk, it was gone, leaving the room reeking with the stench of evil.

Wolf dropped to his knees.

Aralorn slid across the floor to the small mess of charred bones, where Kisrah and Gerem already knelt.

“What is happening? Who is that man?”

Aralorn looked up to see Irrenna standing in the entranceway, clad only in her nightrobes. The lady’s gaze traveled around the room, pausing at the silent form of her husband before halting on Aralorn’s tear-streaked face.

“There is a dead howlaa by the stables,” Irrenna said. “We were trying to find out how it got there when there was a terrible noise, as if the stones of the keep were shifting.”

“Oh, Mother,” croaked Aralorn, as Correy and Falhart, who must have been drawn by the same sound, came into the room as well. “Irrenna,” she tried again. “Nevyn saved Father, but he died in the doing of it.”

“The Lyon’s waking now,” said Kisrah.

Gerem jumped up and ran to the bier. Kisrah lingered a moment. He murmured something that Aralorn couldn’t hear and conjured a white rose, which he set just inside the charred area. Then he, too, left the dead for the living.

Irrenna froze for an instant before she, Falhart, and Correy all ran to the Lyon’s side.

Bound by weakness and inclination, Aralorn stayed by Nevyn’s remains. She touched the blackened skull gently, as if a stronger touch would have hurt him. “Rest in peace, Nevyn.”

A cold nose touched her hand, and she turned to Wolf, who wore his wolf form once more.

His golden eyes were dim with sorrow, and Aralorn drew him close, pressing her face into Wolf’s shoulder. “I know,” she said. “I know.”