Wolfsbane s-2

by Patricia Briggs

  Though he remounted, Correy made no move to push on. “We have two weeks before Father dies. Kisrah will try his best . . . but there has to be something we can do. Aralorn, do you know any sorcerers who might be of help? If it is black magic that holds Father, perhaps a mage who has worked with such things can help.”

  “You do know that it is a death sentence for any mage who admits to working such magic,” commented Aralorn without glancing at Wolf.

  “Yes.” Correy hesitated. “I spoke with Lord Kisrah before we left this morning. He told me to ask you . . . He said that he thought you might know Geoffrey ae’Magi’s son, Cain.”

  “He thought what?” asked Aralorn, as she damned the Archmage for voicing his suspicions out loud. If it became common knowledge she knew Wolf, they were in deep trouble.

  “He thought you might know Cain the Black,” repeated Correy obligingly. “It is well-known that Cain worked with the darker aspects of magic, as Lord Kisrah has not. He suggested that we might be well-advised to call upon someone with more experience in these matters.”

  “Been keeping bad company, little sister?” asked Falhart in deceptively gentle tones.

  “Never worse than now,” she agreed lightly. Sheen snorted, impatient with the long stop, and she patted him on the neck, giving herself some time to pick her reply. “I have been communicating with someone who knows something about the dark arts. He assures me that he is doing all that he can.”

  “Who—”

  “Well enough,” said Correy, over the top of Gerem’s impatient question. “That’s all that we can ask.”

  “Is it?” asked Gerem hotly. “I’ve been having other dreams too, dreams of Geoffrey ae’Magi’s son. Isn’t it in the least suspicious that the only mage known to work the black magic of old happens to associate with our sister when such magic strikes the Lyon of Lambshold? Doesn’t that bother anyone but me?”

  Abruptly, Aralorn kneed Sheen, and the warhorse jumped forward until she could turn him to face Gerem with only inches between them, tapping the stallion’s neck when he nipped at the sorrel’s rump. “Yes, plague it, it does. And worries me as well, if you want to know the truth of the matter. Only one man knew that . . . Cain and I know each other—and as far as I know, he died before he could tell anyone.” I hope he’s dead, thought Aralorn. I hope so. “If he’s not dead, then we have a greater evil to face than some storytime creature.”

  She drew in a deep breath, and the war stallion shifted beneath her—every muscle ready to fight at her command. “Plague it,” she said.

  She took Sheen a safe distance from the other horses and tried to get a handle on her temper. “I’m sorry for that,” she said finally. “I know that we are all under a great deal of strain. It absolutely was not Cain who ensorcelled Father. He does not work with black magic any longer.”

  “The ae’Magi,” said Correy in hushed tones. “That’s the evil man you’re talking about. He just died a couple of months ago.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Correy,” said Falhart with a laugh. “He was the kindest of men . . . warmhearted and generous to a fault.”

  Correy started to say something further when Aralorn caught his eye and shook her head strongly at him.

  “You’re right, Falhart,” she said quietly. “He was a most unusual man.”

  “A man of sterling character,” said Gerem. Unlike you, he meant. “I never met him, but I never heard anyone say a word against him.”

  “Never,” agreed Aralorn solemnly.

  “Never,” said Correy on an indrawn breath. “Not once. No complaints—everyone loved him.”

  “Absolutely,” said Falhart seriously.

  “I wonder,” said Correy thoughtfully, to no one in particular, “where his son picked up all the knowledge of black magic.”

  Aralorn smiled at him approvingly before sending Sheen down the trail to Lambshold.

  * * *

  She took her time grooming Sheen, as did Correy his own horse. Falhart and Gerem left for their own business, and as soon as they were gone, Correy turned his horse out into its run and leaned against the wall near where Aralorn was running a soft cloth over Sheen’s dappled hindquarters.

  “Tell me about the last ae’Magi,” he said, kneeling to pet Wolf.

  Before she answered, she glanced casually around the stables, but there were no grooms around near enough to overhear. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re right. I’ve never heard anyone say a word against him. That’s just not natural.” With a last pat, he stood up. “I met him several times at court, and I liked him very much. I never talked to him—but I had this feeling he was a wonderful person even though I didn’t know him at all. It didn’t even strike me as odd until I thought about it today. And Hart ...”

  “Yes?” asked Aralorn with a smile.

  “He despises courtiers of any type—except those of us related to him by blood. He only tolerates Myr because the king is a wonderful swordsman. There is this as well: Falhart makes an exception for you and his wife, but he really doesn’t like magic. He prefers things he can face with his broadsword or quarterstaff. That attitude tends to carry over to sorcerers. Oh, he’s not as bad as say, Nevyn, about it—but, I’ve never heard him approve of any of them. Yet he considers the last ae’Magi a paragon among men? Hart has never mentioned anything in particular that Geoffrey did to inspire the kind of enthusiasm he showed today.”

  “Geoffrey,” said Aralorn quietly, “was a Darranian. Did you know that?”

  “No,” said Correy, with the same disbelief she had felt the first time she’d heard it.

  “It twisted him, I think. You’ve seen what being a Darranian wizard did to Nevyn. Nevyn pretends he is not a mage; Geoffrey had to be the greatest. So he looked farther for his power than a less driven man might have.”

  Wolf growled at her.

  She smiled at him. “All right, so perhaps he was just evil.” Turning back to Correy, she said, “It doesn’t matter why he was the way he was, only that he was a black mage such as the world has not seen since the Wizard Wars.”

  “The ae’Magi was a black mage? Why didn’t someone notice?” asked Correy.

  “Hmm.” Aralorn began brushing Sheen again. “One of the first things we all learn about magic is that a mage cannot take over a man’s mind, that free will is stronger. That may be true of green magic, like mine, and all other forms of human magic—but it is not true of black magic. I saw the ae’Magi whip the skin off a man’s back while the man begged for more. The ae’Magi created a spell that made everyone his adoring slave. It protected him and gave him easy access to his victims. As he amassed more power, he extended the spell. Even now, his magic hasn’t faded entirely—as you saw with Falhart.”

  “Why aren’t you or I afflicted?”

  She shook her head. “About you, I don’t know for certain. Some people seemed a little immune to it, though most of them were mageborn. You have a priestess of Ridane for a lover, and that might help. Or it could simply be the fading of the spell.”

  “So your shapeshifter blood protected you?”

  She nodded. “Yes.” She hesitated, but decided the more people with as much information as was safe, the more likely it was that someone would figure out how to save the Lyon. “I suspect it might also have had something to do with my close association with another mage.”

  “His son.”

  She shrugged, then nodded.

  “You said that you’re afraid Geoffrey is not dead?”

  “All that was found in the ae’Magi’s castle were bits and pieces of Uriah leavings. It was impossible to know for certain that the ae’Magi’s remains were there. The bindings between the Archmage and the other sorcerers were broken, and the wizard’s council assumed that meant Geoffrey was dead. But who can say for certain?”

  “If he was not killed,” said Correy slowly, “would he have any reason to look for you?”

  Aralorn nodded. “He wanted to conquer death, and he thought
he could do it through his son. He knows I am . . . a friend of his son—I, Aralorn of Lambshold, not just of Sianim. He might also have a touch of vengeance in his motivation. We—ah—had something to do with his untimely demise.”

  Correy gave her a small smile. “If he’s not dead, it would be his almost demise.”

  “Point to you,” she agreed.

  “You think he is responsible for what happened to Father,” said Correy slowly. “That he set Father up as bait, knowing you would go to Cain for help.”

  “I think that if he were alive, that is what he would do, yes.”

  “Do you think he is alive?”

  “No.” She sighed, rolling her shoulders to relieve the strain of reaching Sheen’s back. Short people should have short horses. “I hope not.”

  “Kisrah knew,” said Correy slowly. “He knows about you. Did the last ae’Magi tell him?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably. Or he scryed it somehow.”

  “Was it Kisrah who ensorcelled Father?” he asked.

  “I think . . . I think it was Kisrah and Gerem. I think someone used both of them to set a trap that neither was responsible for.” That sounded right and fit with Kisrah’s actions.

  “Someone like Geoffrey ae’Magi.”

  She nodded. “He’s not the only possibility.” But he was—unless a legendary, possibly fictitious, creature had begun to stir again. Unfortunately, the ae’Magi’s surviving a Uriah attack without use of his magic was more likely than the emergence of a creature who’d been trapped under a sea of glass for ten centuries.

  “Have you really asked for Cain’s help?” asked Correy. “Knowing it could be a trap set for him?” He hesitated. “Knowing what he is?”

  She decided that defending Wolf to her brother could be put off for another time, so she simply said, “He’s doing what he can.”

  She set the cloth down on a rough bench, took up a comb, and began to work on Sheen’s tail. The stallion jerked his tail irritably, twitching it halfway out of her hand before resigning himself to his fate with a sigh.

  Aralorn had been going back through the information she’d given her brother and regretted some of it.

  “Correy, for your own safety, don’t talk to anyone about the ae’Magi. His spell is waning, but it is by no means gone—most especially in connection with people he associated closely with, like Lord Kisrah. And I would appreciate it if you would try to keep Hart and Gerem from bandying Cain’s name about, for my safety. There are any number of mages who would like to have something to use against him, someone he cares about—like me.”

  “You care about him, too,” said Correy.

  “Yes,” she agreed without looking at Wolf. “I do.”

  “I will try to keep the others quiet,” Correy promised. He patted her on the shoulder and walked down the wide aisle between stalls. As he left, the wind, which had been still all day, flitted through the open stable doors in a ragged gust.

  Death is coming . . . Death and madness dreaming . . .

  “Aralorn,” said Wolf sharply, coming to his feet.

  She shivered, and, knowing he couldn’t hear the screaming shrieks, gave him a half smile. “I’m all right. It’s just the wind. Wolf, do you still think that talking to Kisrah is a good idea?”

  “I don’t know that we have any other option,” he replied. “If he can tell me what spell was used to bind your father, I may be able to unweave it. It’s obvious Gerem, if he’s had any training at all, barely knows how to call a light spell; he couldn’t tell me what he did even if you could persuade him to talk to me. Kisrah will know what his part in the spell was. Otherwise, two weeks doesn’t give me a lot of time to prowl through old books for an answer. Whether Kisrah knew it before your father was ensorcelled or not, he obviously knows that I am involved with you. Talking with him won’t make matters any worse.”

  “You don’t think that he’s the impetus behind this?”

  “He could be,” he said. “But he has information we need—and now that I’m rested, I can handle Kisrah if he tries anything.”

  “Then I’ll go look for him as soon as I finish with Sheen,” she said, and went back to work.

  Grooming was soothing and required just enough thought that she could distract herself from the worry that the Lyon would gradually fade into death no matter what they could do, and that the possibility the ae’Magi (and no other man held that title in her heart of hearts for all that it now belonged to Kisrah) was still alive lingered. Most of all, she could allow the work to keep her from the confession she was beginning to dread more than all the other evils the future could hold: How was she going to tell Wolf that she’d married him to keep him alive? It had seemed a good idea at the time. However, she’d had a chance to think it over. Would he see it as another betrayal?

  Sheen stamped and snorted, and Aralorn coaxed her hands to soften the strokes of the comb.

  “Shh,” she said. “Be easy.”

  NINE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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