“I’ll see to it,” he said. “Good night, Featherweight.”
She reached way up and managed to ruffle his hair. “Good night, Blue-eyes.”
Correy laughed and kissed her cheek.
“Good night, sir,” he told Kisrah with a friendly nod.
Kisrah waited until Correy had gone. “Blue-eyes?” he asked.
If they’d been friends, she would have laughed; she satisfied herself with lifting an eyebrow instead. “Because they are not, of course.”
He nodded seriously. “Of course. I compliment you on your storytelling.”
She shrugged, rubbing her fingers into the soft fur behind Wolf’s ears. “It’s a hobby of mine to collect odd tales. Some of them have even come in handy a time or two. Come, I’ll take you to the bier room.”
She set off across the great hall, which had largely emptied of people. She didn’t look behind her, but she could hear the rustle of the Archmage’s cloak and the click of Wolf’s nails on the hard floor.
Before they reached the curtain, Kisrah stopped walking. Aralorn stopped and looked at him inquiringly.
“Do you think that the only reason black magic was abandoned was this beast in your story?”
“The Dreamer? I’m not certain that the Dreamer ever existed,” replied Aralorn. “There’s a less dramatic version of the story in which Tam himself creates the Dreamer in order to stop the general use of black magic. I am a green mage, my lord ae’Magi: I don’t need to eat rotten meat to know that it is tainted. Blood magic . . . is as foul-smelling as a raw roast left out for a couple of days in the sun.”
“Ah,” said Kisrah. He frowned at her intently and changed the subject smoothly. “Did you kill the ae’Magi?”
“Geoffrey?” she asked, as if there had been a dozen Archmages killed in the last few years.
“Yes.”
Aralorn folded her arms and leaned against the cold stone wall. Wolf settled at her feet with a sigh, though he kept a steady eye on Kisrah. The Archmage ignored him.
“The Uriah killed Geoffrey,” she said softly. “Poor tormented creatures he, himself, created.” Then she forced herself to relax and continue lightly. “At least that’s what the mercenaries who were hired to clean up the castle reported.”
“He had no trouble controlling them before,” said Kisrah. “I’ve used the spells myself—they were neither difficult nor draining. And, Aralorn, despite what your friend, the wizard who gave you that amulet”—not one of her better stories, she admitted—“told you, Geoffrey didn’t create the Uriah, just summoned them to do his bidding. I think that you have been misled.”
She shrugged. She’d learned her lesson; she didn’t argue with someone who might still be under the influence of the late ae’Magi’s spells.
“You were there that night,” he said. “I saw you.”
“And if I say I killed him,” asked Aralorn in a reasonable tone, “what then? You will kill me as well to even the score?”
“No,” he said hoarsely. “My word of honor that I will not. Nor will I tell anyone else what you say to me. I believe I know who did the killing, but I need . . . I need to be certain.”
Why? she thought to herself. So you can justify the black magic used to hold my father as bait to trap Wolf?
“How could I, a second-rate swordswoman and a third-rate green mage, do such a thing to the ae’Magi?” She indulged herself a bit more than was strictly safe, though she was careful that he would not hear the sarcasm in her voice. “Everyone knows how powerful a sorcerer he was—and a swordsman of the highest ability. Why would I want to kill him? He was the kindest, most tenderhearted—not to mention amusing—sorcerer I have ever met. His death was a great tragedy.”
Second-rate swordswoman, but first-rate actress; Aralorn knew that Kisrah could only hear the sincerity in her voice. It was the sort of addlepated garbage everyone said about the last ae’Magi and meant in its absurd, simplistic whole—thanks to the ae’Magi’s charisma spell, which lingered even now. If she hadn’t accused Geoffrey of creating the Uriah, she thought, she might have persuaded Kisrah of her innocence in the Archmage’s death.
Kisrah frowned at her. “You were there that night. Wielding a mage’s staff ...” He hesitated a bare instant, but obviously decided he might as well push all the way. “Wielding Cain’s staff—it is very distinctive.”
She wouldn’t help him convict Wolf. Aralorn gave Kisrah a puzzled look. “I was there that night, but I don’t recall any staff. I sometimes run messages for the Spymaster. When the Uriah started acting strangely, I left as soon as I could. I’m not a coward, but those things scare me. Look what they did to the ae’Magi.”
Kisrah stared at her; she could almost taste his frustration. “The Uriah captured you for him. He had me translocate you to his castle. What did he want from you?”
Aralorn shrugged and modified her story without a pause. “A misunderstanding, I’m afraid. He thought that I had some knowledge of the whereabouts of King Myr. You remember that was about the time Myr, distraught over his parents’ deaths, left without telling anyone where he had gone. It turns out that King Myr visited a healer, who lives quietly in the mountains near the king’s summer residence.” Without a qualm, she stuck to the official story. If it became widely known that Myr and the ae’Magi were enemies . . . it might confuse a lot of Myr’s followers who were still under the influence of the previous ae’Magi. Perhaps time would solve that—perhaps not. “I actually did know where he was, but was told not to tell anyone—you know how the Spymaster is. The ae’Magi didn’t intend any harm to him, obviously, but orders are orders. The ae’Magi eventually accepted that I couldn’t tell him anything.”
Storytelling did come in handy sometimes, Aralorn reflected. Take a grain of truth and embellish it with nonsense, and it was more believable than what had actually happened. It wasn’t as if she really expected Kisrah to believe her anyway; she just wanted to keep him from deciding what had happened with any certainty.
Wolf whined, and it echoed weirdly in the stone-enclosed corridor. Maybe he was worried about how much storytelling she was doing this night. Probably he was right.
“Shall we go, Lord Kisrah? Or would you like to put me to the question? I’m certain Father has some old thumb-screws around here somewhere.”
The Archmage stared at her as if the intensity of his gaze alone would be enough to pick through the tale she’d woven. His expression was as far removed from the charming man of his public image as Wolf was from a sheep. The pink wig looked like the absurd camouflage it was. He looked very tired, she thought suddenly—as if he had spent more than one sleepless night lately.
“No doubt,” he said tautly, “torture would get another answer out of you, equally plausible and equally false.”
Aralorn smiled pleasantly at him; it wasn’t difficult—few things gave her greater pleasure than frustrating someone else’s attempt to gain information. “No doubt,” she agreed congenially.
“Sometimes,” he said with absolute conviction, “I wish there were a truth spell that really worked. Lead on, then, by all means,” he said with a sigh, abruptly shifting back to the harmless dandy. “I would take a look at this spell that holds your father.”
The guard had returned to his duty.
“Lord Kisrah is here to take a look at Father,” she told him.
“Of course, Lady. Should I remain here, or would you like more privacy?”
Aralorn looked to the Archmage, who shrugged his indifference.
“Stay here,” she said to the guard. “I’d rather not have any curious souls wander in while the ae’Magi is here.”
“Yes, Lady.” The guard smiled.
“The wardings are different,” said Lord Kisrah, examining the curtains.
Aralorn shrugged and dispelled her wards. “It was a onetime warding amulet. These wards are mine.”
He opened the curtain and passed through, murmuring without looking at her. “The wardings were Cain’s wor
k—I know it well. I’ve never heard of talismans of warding.”
She was not so easily won from her chosen story. She merely raised her eyebrow at him. “I had not heard of bane-shades before today. Isn’t it wonderful that we may learn throughout our lifetimes. I assure you that the only ones here when the wardings were drawn were my wolf and I. You have your choice of mages.” She gestured to Wolf, who whined and wagged his tail gently. No human mage could manage to stay in an animal form as long as Wolf had tonight. That Cain ae’Magison was something other than purely human was something his father had kept quiet.
Kisrah spared her a brief glare before continuing into the room. She lit a magelight as she followed him in, but he lit his own as well. Obviously, she thought with amusement, he didn’t trust her. Smart man.
She tugged the curtain shut behind her, stopping just inside the alcove, where she could see the sorcerer without interfering with his magic.
Like Wolf, he placed a hand on her father’s forehead and made a gesture that looked somewhat similar. Watching him closely, Aralorn saw the Archmage’s full lips tighten with some emotion or perhaps just the effort he put into the spell. When he was done, he stepped back for a moment, then began another spell.
At Aralorn’s side, Wolf stiffened and took a swift step forward, crouching slightly. Aralorn felt a swift rush of fear; had she trusted too much to her knowledge of this man?
In spite of her suspicions, she really didn’t believe he would actually harm her father. His reputation aside, Aralorn had access to more rumors than a cat had kittens, and she’d never heard a word to indicate he was dishonorable; and someone had taken great care to keep from harming her father. She knew too much about magic to make the mistake of interrupting Kisrah, but she watched him narrowly and trusted Wolf to stop it if need be.
Whatever the spell the Archmage wrought, Aralorn could tell by the force of the magic gathering at his touch and the beads of sweat on his forehead that it was a powerful one. When he was through, Kisrah leaned against the bier for support.
“Cursed be,” he swore softly, wiping his face with impatience. He turned to Aralorn, “Quickly, tell me the names of the magic-users who live within a day’s ride of here.”
“Human mages?”
“Yes.”
Aralorn pursed her lips but could think of no reason to lie to him. “Nevyn, for one. I think Falhart’s wife Jenna might be a hedgewitch—someone said something like that once—but you’d have to talk to them to be sure. I know she’s the local midwife. Old Anasel retired to a cottage on the big farm over on the bluffs about a league to the south. I believe that he’s senile now. That’s it as far as I know—though there are probably a half dozen hedgewitches.”
Kisrah shook his head. “Wouldn’t be a hedgewitch. Anasel . . . Anasel might have been able to do it. I’ll speak to Lady Irrenna about him. It is certainly not Nevyn. I know his work.”
Aralorn tapped her fingers lightly on her thigh. Hedgewitches aside, Kisrah should have been able to answer the question about wizards for himself. He was, after all, the ae’Magi. All the trained human wizards, except for Wolf, were bound to him.
“Ask Irrenna about other mages as well—she might know something I don’t, but after you do that, you might see if you can contact one of the Spymaster’s wizards in Sianim. Tell them you’re asking for me, and they won’t charge you. If there is another wizard here, Ren will know.”
Kisrah looked startled for a moment at her helpfulness, but he nodded warily. “I’ll do that.”
* * *
That night, comfortably ensconced in the bed, Aralorn watched as Wolf, in human form, scrubbed his face with a damp cloth.
“Wolf, what do you know about howlaas?”
He held the cloth and shook his head. “Something less than a story collector like you, I imagine.”
She shrugged. “I was just wondering how long I’ll be listening to the wind.”
“Is it bothering you now?”
“Not as long as I stay away from windows.”
“Give it a few days,” he said finally. “If it doesn’t stop soon, I’ll see what I can find out.”
She nodded. The thought that it might never fade was something she didn’t want to dwell on. She came up with a change of topic.
“What was the second spell Lord Kisrah tried to work?” she asked. “The one you were worried about.”
Wolf shrugged off his shirt and set it aside so he could wash more thoroughly. “I believe it was an attempt to unwork the spell holding your father.”
Admiring the view, she said, “I thought that was what he was doing with his first spell?”
Wolf shook his head. “No. He was checking to make certain your father was still alive.”
She thought about that, frowning. “Why did his second spell bother you?”
He wiped dry and took off his loose-fitting pants. “Because he didn’t examine the spell before he tried to unwork it.”
“Which means?”
“He knew what the spell was already.”
She pulled back the cover from Wolf’s side of the bed and patted it in invitation. “You think that Kisrah cast it?”
He joined her and spent a moment settling in. “Yes. I think that’s exactly what it means.”
“Then why couldn’t he remove it?” she asked, scooting over until her head rested on his shoulder. “And why was he surprised by the baneshade’s presence?”
“I think that another wizard has his hands in the brew. Remember, Kisrah asked about other wizards in the area.”
Aralorn nodded. “So he can’t release the spell until he finds the other mage?”
“Right.”
“If he cast the spell with this other wizard, then why doesn’t he know who it is?”
“Perhaps he set the spell in an amulet,” said Wolf, grunting even before she poked him. “Seriously, I don’t know.”
“Nevyn,” she said with a sigh. “It must have been Nevyn. I’ve heard that poor Anasel can hardly feed himself.”
But Wolf shook his head. “If it was Nevyn, I’d expect that Kisrah would know it. Kisrah was telling the truth when he said it wasn’t Nevyn—he’s a terrible liar.”
She wriggled her toe in the covers for a minute, then she twisted around and braced her chin on Wolf’s chest. “So Kisrah decided that you and I had a hand in the former ae’Magi’s death. In a fit of vengeance, he uses black magic on Father to draw me, and therefore you, into coming here, where he could exact vengeance. Then another wizard steps in to add his two bits’ worth—I don’t buy it.”
“That’s because you are trying to make whole cloth from unspun wool.”
She grinned in the darkness. “You’ve been hanging around Lambshold too long. ‘Sheepish’ comments aside, I suppose, you’re probably right. Do you have a better idea?”
“I have a suspicion, but I’ll wait until I’ve had a little more time to think on it.”
She yawned and shifted into a more comfortable position. “I think I’ll sleep on it, too.”
She really didn’t expect to gain any insight while she lay dreaming, but it was several hours before morning when she awoke with her heart pounding.
“Wolf,” she said urgently.
“Umpf,” he said inelegantly.
She sat up, letting the chilly night air seep under the warm blankets. “I mean it, Wolf, wake up. I need your opinion.”
“All right. I’m awake.” He pulled the covers snug around his neck.
Almost hesitantly, she asked, “Did Kisrah look tired to you? I thought so, but I don’t know him very well.”
“Yes. There are a lot of people around here who haven’t gotten enough sleep.” Sleep-roughened as it was, his voice was almost difficult to understand.
Aralorn smoothed the covers as they lay over her lap, not at all certain her next question was important enough for the pain it would cause him. “When you saw her, the one time you saw her, did your mother have red hair?”
&n
bsp; He withdrew instantly without moving at all.
“It’s not an idle question,” she told him. “I thought of something while I was telling stories tonight. I thought it was silly then, but now ...”
“Yes,” he said shortly, “she had red hair.”
“Was it long or short?”
“Long,” he bit out after a short pause. “Long and filthy. It smelled of excrement and death.”
“Wolf,” said Aralorn in a very small voice, looking at the bump her toes made under the quilts, “when you destroyed the tower, were you trying to kill yourself?”
She felt the bed move as he shifted his weight.
This question seemed to bother him less than the one about his mother. The biting tone was missing from his rough voice, and he sounded . . . intrigued. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
She ran her hands through her hair. “I’m not sure how to tell you this without sounding like a madwoman. Just bear with me.”
“Always.” There was a bit of long-suffering in his tone.
She leaned back against him and smiled wryly. “Ever since you left this last time, I’ve been having nightmares. At first they weren’t too different from the ones I had after you rescued me from the ae’Magi’s dungeons, and I didn’t think much more about them. About a week ago, they became more pointed.”
She thought about them, trying to pick out the first that had been different. “The first set seemed to have a common theme. I dreamed that I was a child, looking for something I had lost—you. In another dream, I was back in the dungeon, blinded, and the ae’Magi asked me where you were—just as he did when he had me at the castle. It was so real I could feel the scratches on my arms and the congestion in my lungs. I’ve never had a dream that real.”
She reached out a hand to rest on Wolf’s arm for her own comfort. “I saw Talor again, and his twin. They were both Uriah this time, though Kai died before he could be changed.”
She paused to steady her voice and wasn’t too successful. “They asked me where you were.”
Wolfsbane s-2 Page 14
