In spite of her precarious position, the warmth of the fire had Aralorn half-asleep herself before Kisrah finally pulled back the bedclothes, climbed between the muslin sheets, and put out his magelight. She shook herself gingerly, careful that her claws made no sound on the polished wood.
The lack of Kisrah’s magelight was no handicap to her rodent eyes—the dying embers of the fire provided more than enough light to see with. The rhythms of Kisrah’s breathing slipped slowly into sleep. Aralorn waited intently.
She couldn’t have pinpointed exactly what first alerted her to the second presence in the room. It could have been a slight sound or the fur on her back ruffling as if a chill wind had blown into the room, though the air remained still and comfortable.
She took her eyes from the bed in time to see a pale mist settle before the fire. Slowly, it condensed into a familiar form. The voice was so soft she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t been so close . . . perhaps she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t met the howlaa. It felt like that, sounds heard without her ears.
You were not to come here, Kisrah. Someone will connect you with the deed, then where will you be? Aralorn trembled with utter terror as she watched Wolf’s presumably dead father. His lips did not move, though she heard his voice clearly.
What have you done, my old friend? You said the spell was for Cain, to hold him without harm. It was Kisrah who spoke. She dared a glance at the bed, but Kisrah lay unmoving; to all appearances he was sleeping deeply.
And who would have used it on him? I was the most powerful mage in the world, and he destroyed me. Which of my friends should I have sent against him? You would have done it had I asked—but you would not have succeeded. Geoffrey’s voice was soft. Should I have let him kill you, too? I did what I had to. This way, no one is harmed.
There was a short pause, then Kisrah said, Why black magic? And why bring others into it, to blacken their souls as well?
If it were not black, any mage could unwork the spell. As for the others—Geoffrey’s voice softened with understanding —did you not try and unwork the spell? If it had been only one, anyone could have freed the Lyon. The time is not yet met for him to awaken. Have patience, all will be well.
Aralorn tried to make herself even smaller without moving so much as a hair. She very much would rather that neither of the participants in this bizarre conversation realized that there was a mouse listening to every word.
The Lyon will die if something is not done soon. She has no intention of bringing Cain into this, or she would have done it long since. No good can come of this, Geoffrey. Evil begets only evil. The magic that I, and whatever other poor benighted fools you chose to aid you wrought here, is evil. I should not have done it.
Geoffrey’s voice was harsh. You think my son is so stupid that you could snare him any other way? I searched for him fruitlessly for years without catching him—because I could not find the right bait. Now I have it. Don’t fret yourself, he’s here with her. Cain’s mother was a shapeshifter. She gave him the ability to use green magic, something I failed to recognize until it was too late because of his talent with human magic. The mixture proved volatile—too volatile for his sanity. At least I hope he is insane . . . that is easier to accept than flesh of my flesh being so given to evil.
Geoffrey paused as if putting aside an old grief. Aralorn’s face twisted into a snarl, an expression that sat oddly on the mouse’s face as she traded terror for rage at last. She put aside all thoughts of an ancient evil, satisfied that her enemy was Geoffrey ae’Magi. She and Wolf must have failed. This is Geoffrey ae’Magi. He twists and manipulates with a skill I might envy if he did not use it as he does.
Kisrah did not respond, and at last the phantom continued. Don’t be so impatient. I told you he would come. He might even be here already. I’ve seen him take the shape of animals before. Have you looked closely at Aralorn’s wolf?
With those words, Geoffrey’s form dissolved. As it left the room, Lord Kisrah drew in a deep breath that was more of a gasp and sat up, clutching his head and grimacing in pain. He got up slowly, like an old man, and stirred the coals in the fire before setting a log in the grate. It was a very long time before he went back to sleep, and Aralorn didn’t move until he did.
A very cautious mouse crept out of the room at last, shivering and wary.
* * *
Wolf, in human form and wearing his mask, opened the door and let Aralorn into her room before she had a chance to knock. Startled, she looked quickly around to make certain there was no one to see him before stepping through the door and pushing it closed behind her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked after a brief look at her face. “What frightened you?”
She stepped closer to him and pressed against his warm chest. She felt him stiffen momentarily, as he still did at unexpected touches, then he relaxed and pulled her more tightly to him. She took a deep breath, feeling her panic abate.
She stepped back to see his face.
“Thanks, I needed that.” She hesitated. “I saw . . . Wolf, it was your father. I was watching Kisrah sleep when your father materialized in the room.”
He didn’t appear surprised, just tugged her closer again and bent to rest his head on top of hers as she told him the whole of what she had seen.
“He has to be dead,” she whispered. “He has to be, but I swear to you this was him.”
“Are you certain it was he?”
An illusion? Aralorn examined her memory. Illusionists could not create an actual double any more than a shapeshifter could take on the appearance of a specific person. There were too many fine details to be missed—a mole behind the earlobe, the slant of a smile, the swing of a walk.
“Not unless it was created by an illusion master who knew your father very well,” she said finally. “Every nuance of speech or expression was Geoffrey’s.” She frowned. “Though he didn’t really speak. I would say that it was mindspeaking, but I’ve never been able to send or receive by mind. I understood everything he said—they said—quite clearly.”
“Dreamspeaking is different,” replied Wolf. “If Kisrah was asleep, probably it was a dreamspeaker—which was one of my father’s odder talents.”
“Dreamspeaking as in dreamwalking?” asked Aralorn. “It can be part of the same gift. Did my father have a scent?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, shocked at the inane . . . Wait, not such an inane question after all. “Allyn’s toadflax, I never thought of that. I don’t remember ...” A mouse’s sense of smell was not as good as a wolf’s, but it was better than a human’s.
“Father had a scent that he always wore: cloves and—”
“—cinnamon,” she broke in. “I remember. I would have noticed that. I don’t think he had any scent at all.”
“Dreamwalker then,” said Wolf. She couldn’t tell what he thought about it. “Though it’s a rare talent, my father was not the only dreamspeaker among the wizards. Whatever you saw was not a real person but a similitude. Any dreamwalker who knew my father well could produce it.”
“So it isn’t your father,” she said with a rush of relief.
“I didn’t say that.” Wolf sighed and tightened his hold. “Dreamwalking is one of the two or three things that wizards are supposed to be able to do for a while after they die.”
“There are a lot of dead wizards around?” Aralorn asked.
Wolf shrugged. “I’ve never seen any. There are stories, but no one really believes them.” He hesitated. “It’s just that if any wizard would come back from the dead, it would be my father.”
“So this is either your father or another wizard who knows a lot about your father.”
“If Kisrah were a little better at self-deception,” said Wolf, loosening his hold, “it could even have been him. I never heard that dreamwalking was one of his abilities, but most of the great mages have several.”
“Kisrah thought your father was a good man,” she returned.
�
�My father’s magic was powerful enough to reach Sianim,” he said. “Certainly he’d have put stronger spells on any wizard close enough to smell black magic. On his own, Kisrah is pretty observant: He’d know if he was causing my father’s appearances in his dreams.”
“I was hoping for the Dreamer.” Aralorn stepped away and began undressing.
“You just think the Dreamer would make a better story,” he said.
She frowned at him. “What’s the use of going to all this work if you can’t brag about it when you’re through? If it is your father, we have to be quiet about it.” She took a step nearer to him, then said suspiciously, “If I didn’t know you better, I would say that you’re cheerful. You are never cheerful around the subject of your father.”
“My father isn’t a cheery topic,” he said. “But whether we are dealing with him, some other wizard, or a creature out of one of your stories is something that can wait. I think I have a solution to our more immediate problem. I’ve been doing some thinking while you were gone, and I’ve remembered a few things. If we can get Kisrah and Gerem’s cooperation, I think I can break the spell on your father.”
She stilled. “Are you sure?”
“My dear Lady, nothing’s certain in this life, but it should work.”
“What about the possibility of Geoffrey’s attacking you?”
“If Kisrah and Gerem are willing to cooperate, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
He sounded very certain, but so had Geoffrey.
“Kisrah’s not very happy with what’s been done to my father, or his own part in it,” she said. “But convincing him that Geoffrey is . . . was . . . is—Plague it!—that Geoffrey was-and-is not a good man won’t be easy.”
“Hmm,” Wolf said. “I think I might have an idea or two on that score.”
He was, she noticed, dividing their problem into two: save her father and deal with his. That he believed her father’s ensorcellment was solvable was beyond good. She could feel herself relax into belief in his ability. That he was ignoring his father was less good. She worried that it was less confidence in his own skills than it was indifference to danger to his life. It was time to let him know what she had done.
“Wolf,” she said, “I—”
“I know,” he said with a wicked smile glinting in his eyes. “We’ve done enough work for now.” The smile left his eyes, and his hands traced her face.
“I’ve never had a family before,” he said in wonder. “Not really. It feels so strange to belong to you and have you belong to me.”
She looked up at him and opened her lips, but she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t tell him that she’d married him to force him to take care of himself, not when it obviously meant so much more to him than that. Come to think of it, it meant a lot more than that to her as well. It was just that . . . Wolf had belonged to her for a long time in a way that tied them far more than any goddess could.
She reached up and tugged at his mask, and he let it fall into her hands.
“Don’t hide from me,” she said.
Dropping the cold silver false face on the floor, she pulled his head down so she could kiss him fully.
* * *
Wolf held her while she slept, and smiled. His wife was a manipulative minx; but then, he’d known that for a long time. The difference between her and his father was that she manipulated people for their own good—or at least what she perceived to be the greater good. He wondered when she’d break down and tell him.
How could she think that he wouldn’t know what she’d done? As soon as the priestess placed the blood-bond between them, he’d realized what it was, had known what Aralorn had tried to do. He was not a well-trained mage in most areas, but black magic he knew well. A blood-bond was well within his area of expertise.
He sent a caress through the tie the death goddess had placed between them, and Aralorn sighed, shifting against him.
He could sever it when he needed to. He’d tell her that after she managed to confess her deed—he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her a little and teach her a lesson about trying to manipulate him as she did the rest of the world.
“If you had known how to find me, you would have come to me when you were told your father had died,” he said softly, and, remembering her face when he’d shown up at Lambshold, he knew it was true. How odd that someone loved him. That Aralorn loved him.
He pulled her closer and relished the light feeling that had come over him, softening the edge of the inner core of rage that was always with him. He was happy, he thought with some surprise.
If she thought so much of him, it might be worth the risk of the potential for disaster that clung to him through his magic. Maybe—he kissed the top of her head—maybe they could discover a way to control his magic rather than destroy it with his death.
* * *
Aralorn awoke early and began planning what was best to do. She didn’t know if Kisrah would take his nighttime visitor’s information at face value or if he could tell that Wolf was Cain by some arcane human magic. Wolf said that he needed Kisrah’s help. There was a chance that Kisrah would attack Wolf the first time he saw him. She couldn’t risk it. She needed to talk to the Archmage first.
She liked Kisrah, but if he reacted badly, she would kill him before he got a chance at Wolf—if she could. She certainly would hate to do something like that in front of witnesses. So she needed a meeting without Wolf and outside of Lambshold.
Aralorn sat up and waited for Wolf to awaken. She wiggled a little. Nothing. She stared at him. Nothing. She reached her hands toward his side.
He rolled over and caught them. “If you tickle me this early in the morning, I’ll see to it that you regret it.”
She laughed. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough,” he growled, completing his roll.
* * *
Sometime later, he said, “Now, what was so important that you woke your husband up before the birds?”
He liked that word, she’d noticed, liked being her husband and the formalization of their bonds to each other. Given how hard he’d tried to keep a distance from her from the beginning of their association, she found it unexpectedly touching.
“Wasn’t this enough?” she asked, trying for a sultry tone. It wasn’t a role that she’d ever tried as a spy.
He bit one of her fingers gently. “Yes. So let us go back to sleep.”
She bit him back, harder.
“Ouch,” he said obligingly, but without any real emphasis, so she didn’t feel that she had to apologize.
“That’s what you get for trying to be funny. We need to go talk to Kisrah.”
Wolf grunted, then said, “So, what have you plotted for the poor man?”
Aralorn decided to overlook his attitude. “We’ll need to be careful—don’t you snort at me; I can be cautious when I have to be. I think I will take him on a ride along the trail to Ridane’s temple. Whoever visited him last night told him that you were Cain. I think that until I get a chance to talk to Kisrah, you need to stay out of sight.”
“Ah,” he said. “You meant I need to be cautious.”
She grinned. “You’re the one under the death sentence. Is Kisrah still under the influence of Geoffrey’s charisma spell?”
“Probably,” he replied. “If I were my father, I certainly would take no chances as far as Kisrah or any other high-ranking mage was concerned.”
“Can you break it?”
She felt him shrug. “I don’t know, but that was my thought as well. If my father is truly dead and can work no more magic, and if he chose to ensure that Kisrah never be a problem as I believe he would have—I might be able to.”
“It would be easier to get his cooperation if he didn’t attack me every time I said something nasty about his predecessor—and I don’t know how else to proceed.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he promised.
* * *
Aralorn finally found Kisrah in the bier room with her fa
ther. He’d arisen earlier than she’d expected, and she’d missed him at breakfast. A few questions to scattered servants had sent her to her father’s bier.
He looked up at the sound the curtain made as she entered and watched her with a hooded glance from his seat on one of the tables meant for gifts and flowers. He looked a bit like a gaudy bouquet in a combination of mauve and emerald that offended even Aralorn’s indifferent sense of style, but the bright array made the little room less somber.
“Lady Aralorn,” he said, acknowledging her entrance after he’d returned her stare for several seconds.
She bent and kissed her father’s slack face, taking a moment to reassure herself that he still lived, before turning back to the Archmage. “I visited the death goddess’s temple yesterday,” she said without preamble.
“I know,” said Kisrah. “Correy told me.”
She toyed with the front of the Lyon’s shirt, straightening it carefully where it had been pulled askew. Finished, she turned to the Archmage. “I owe you my apologies, sir. I have been rude. I know that you have come to help my father, and I’m sorry to be so secretive. My only excuse is that the last few days have been nerve-racking at best, and I’ve been a spy for long enough that questions make me nervous.”
“You sought me out to apologize?” asked the Archmage with a touch of wariness.
Although she noted that he hadn’t accepted her apology, Aralorn smiled and shook her head. “Not primarily, though it needed to be done. There are things that we should speak of, but outside of the keep walls. Would you ride with me?”
Kisrah gazed at the stone floor. “Where is your wolf? I was under the impression that he went everywhere with you.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully and added a little bait. “That’s one of the things I need to speak with you about.”
The Archmage leaned back against the wall. When he spoke, it seemed off the topic of discussion. “I fought a campaign against the Darranians with your father once, did you know?”
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