Wolfsbane s-2

by Patricia Briggs

  “Nevyn?” said Wolf. “I don’t know that I remember. By the time he got to Kisrah, he was in pretty rough shape—and the two of them didn’t really spend a lot of time with my father, in any case. He is fortunate he went to Kisrah; if he’d come to my father, he’d have been a babbling idiot for the rest of his life—I thought at the time that it looked like it might go either way.” His voice reflected the indifference he’d felt at the time, showing Aralorn how badly he’d closed down because she’d reminded him of what he’d once been.

  “I hadn’t realized it had been so bad for him.” Aralorn pulled her scarf from the pocket she’d stashed it in and wrapped it around her ears. This conversation hadn’t helped either of them as much as she’d hoped it would. It hadn’t distracted her from the voices, nor had it restored Wolf’s mood. “I guess he was lucky to come out of all that with only a few quirks about shapeshifters.”

  The wind swayed the larger branches now and sent odd bits of snow to swirl in place.

  “Come on,” said Wolf. “See if that old fleatrap can move out a little; no sense wasting what’s left of the day playing in the snow.”

  TEN

  Aralorn was slipping choice bits of mutton to Wolf when Falhart came up behind her.

  “If Irrenna catches you feeding that wolf at the table, she’s likely to banish him outside,” he said.

  She shook her head, holding down another piece. “As long as we’re discreet, she’ll leave him in peace. She doesn’t want a hungry wolf roaming the castle. He’ll just go into the kitchens to be fed—and there she’ll be, without a spit boy. It might take the cook several days to replace whomever he ate, not to mention the fuss.”

  Falhart gave Wolf a wary glance, then began to laugh. “Scourge on you, Aralorn, if you didn’t have me believing it. Which brings me to my mission. I have a half dozen youngsters and a few not so young who’ve been approaching me all dinner to see if you would give us another story.”

  “An audience,” said Aralorn, scraping the last of her dinner onto a small bit of bread and popping it into her mouth. “See, Wolf, some people appreciate me.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her, lost in thought as he’d been since they’d gotten back. If she could take back what she’d said to Kisrah, she would have—not that Kisrah didn’t need to hear it. She would have bitten her tongue off, leaving Kisrah believing his version of Geoffrey ae’Magi the rest of his life, rather than hurt Wolf.

  Despite his apparent disinterest, Wolf trailed her as she left to greet her audience and made himself comfortable at her feet.

  Kisrah was not there, though she knew he’d returned from their ride. She didn’t see Gerem, either, but Freya and Nevyn were seated on a bench against the wall, just close enough to hear.

  She chose her story primarily for Wolf, something light and happy that should appeal to the rest of her audience as well. As laughter warmed the room better than any winter fire, Wolf rested his head on her lap with a sigh.

  * * *

  When Aralorn awoke the following morning, she found a red-tailed hawk perched on the back of a chair near the fireplace, preening its feathers. Wolf was gone.

  “For a man who was worried about showing himself among humans, you certainly are volunteering your time generously,” she said severely.

  The hawk fluttered his feathers noisily into place. “He said you’d probably be grumpy when you woke up. I can’t say I approve of your choice of mates, niece.”

  “Your own choice being superior,” she said.

  The hawk bobbed its head and squawked with laughter, and the chair rocked dangerously beneath him. “True, true,” Halven chortled as he settled back down.

  “Wolf told you we were married?” asked Aralorn.

  “Yes, child,” said the hawk. “And he asked me to tell you to amuse yourself. He’s off to find the ae’Magi.”

  “Did he say which one?” Aralorn stretched. It had taken Wolf a long time to get to sleep last night even though she’d done her best to tire him.

  “Which one?” Her uncle cocked his head at her. “There is only one ae’Magi.”

  Aralorn pursed her lips. “We’re not certain that’s true.” She told Halven the things that Wolf had told her about his father and the dreams that she, Gerem, and Kisrah had experienced. After a brief hesitation, she told him of Wolf’s relationship to Geoffrey ae’Magi and exactly how the last ae’Magi had died. She didn’t easily give up information—except when that information might be vital. She had a feeling that they might need help before this was over, and her uncle would be a lot of help if he so chose.

  Halven made an odd little sound that Aralorn couldn’t decipher, but the incredulity in his voice when he spoke was clear enough. “So you think that a human mage who is dead is walking in the dreams of a shapeshifter and the newest human Archmage, and they are not able to stop it? The dead have very little power over the living unless the living grant that power to them. I can think of a half dozen more likely things—including the return of the Dreamer.”

  “I was able to take control of my dreams,” said Aralorn. “And Kisrah loved Geoffrey and welcomed him. I don’t think Gerem has any defenses against magical attacks.” Someone—Nevyn—should have seen to it that Gerem had started training a long time ago.

  She looked away from the hawk as she worked out some things she’d never put together before. “The dreams I was given were true dreams, Uncle. At first, whoever sent them to me had tried to alter them, but I was able to see through to the true memories. The dreams concerned things that only the ae’Magi and Wolf knew about.”

  “How do you know Wolf didn’t send the dreams?”

  “It was not Wolf,” she said.

  “Where was he when your father was enspelled?” Her uncle’s voice was somber. “If his father was a dreamwalker, can you say for certain he is not? He wouldn’t necessarily even know he was doing it. You’ve seen how his magic escapes him.”

  Aralorn snorted. “If you knew Wolf, you would understand just how stupid it is to accuse him.”

  She tried to think how to put into words something that was so clear to her that it was almost instinctive. “First, he would never involve other wizards in his spellcasting. He doesn’t trust anyone except maybe me that much. He would never—not ever—voluntarily share as much of his past as I saw in that dream. I knew him for years before he would admit to being anything but a wolf.”

  “I think that it is a better possibility than a dead wizard,” said Halven. “Humans just don’t interact with the natural world well enough to do anything after they are dead.”

  Aralorn digested that comment for a minute. “You mean shapeshifters do?”

  The hawk gave its version of a laugh. “Not to worry. Most people who die don’t linger to torment the living.”

  “The only other explanation that we’ve come up with is that the Dreamer has awakened,” she told him.

  Halven made a derisive sound.

  “Do you have another explanation?” she asked.

  “What about another dreamwalking wizard? A living dreamwalker might be able to do what you have described,” he said.

  “I’m told it’s a rare talent,” said Aralorn.

  “Not rarer than a dead human mage who is making everyone tap to his tune,” said Halven. “Have you figured out why someone decided to attack the Lyon?”

  She shrugged. “As we discussed earlier, it is probably to get me here. There are any number of people after Wolf, and some of them know that where I go, Wolf is not far behind.”

  “To get Wolf here and do what?” asked Halven. “What do they want?”

  She frowned at him. “To kill him.”

  “You don’t know that,” Halven said. “Maybe they only need you.”

  She laughed ruefully. “I don’t die easily. And other than as bait for Wolf, I can’t think of a reason any wizard would want me.”

  “If they kill you, they kill him,” he reminded her.

  “Only since day b
efore yesterday,” she said. “And how did you know about that?”

  “After I objected to finding my niece in a man’s bed, Wolf told me Ridane’s priestess married you.”

  “You couldn’t care less if I was sleeping with the sheep,” she said tartly.

  “He didn’t know that. You didn’t invite me to the wedding.”

  “I didn’t know for certain that I was going to go through with it until we were there. I had to do something,” she told him, trying to stem the defensive tone that wanted to ease into her words. She’d known that she was making him more vulnerable—she was certainly more easily killed than he. But her reasoning still stood. “You said he had a death wish, and I believe you.”

  “So you tricked him into the death goddess’s binding?” asked her uncle. There was, she thought, a certain admiration in his tone. “That’s the reason for your sudden marriage. He’ll take more care of himself now.”

  “Uhm,” she said. “I haven’t told him about the side effect of being married by Ridane.”

  “He doesn’t know?”

  “He wasn’t raised next to Ridane’s temple,” she answered. “She’s not worshipped many places anymore. The gods have been quiet for a long time.”

  Two beady eyes stared at her unblinkingly. “What good is marrying him going to do if he doesn’t know that his death will kill you also? You’ve undercut the very reason for the marriage.”

  She started to defend herself, but a slow smile caught her unexpectedly. “Not really.”

  The marriage itself, she thought, had accomplished what she had sought to enforce with the bond the priestess had set between them. From the awed tone in Wolf’s voice when she’d asked him if he’d marry her to last night when, after they’d retired to this room, he’d brought his pain to her and allowed her to help him forget. She was still a little stiff from the methods they’d employed.

  Her uncle waited for a moment, and when she didn’t continue, he said, “Just make sure you don’t die before you tell him.”

  She grinned. “I’ll try to keep that from happening.” She threw back the bedcovers, restless with prebattle nerves. She knew how to deal with those. “Rather than wait around for Wolf, I’m going to visit Falhart and persuade him to fight with me. You’re welcome to come if you’d like.”

  * * *

  She found Falhart, finally, in the accounting room, slaving over the books. As she walked into the little room, she heard him swear, and he began to scratch out what he’d written.

  “Why don’t you find someone who likes those things?” asked Aralorn with a certain amount of fellow feeling. Give her a scroll of stories or a five-volume history, and she’d devour them, but account books were a whole different kettle of fish. Somewhere in the volumes stacked neatly against the walls was a large number of accounting sheets in her own poorly scribed hand.

  Falhart looked up and scraped the hair from his eyes. “No one, but no one, likes to keep the accounts. Father, Correy, and I switch off, and this is my month.” He eyed the hawk on her shoulder, nodded at it, then focused on the pair of staves she carried in one hand.

  She grinned. “Want to play, big brother? Bet you a copper I can take you two times out of three.”

  “Make it a silver, and I’ll do it,” he said, pushing back his chair. “But I get to use my staff.”

  She shook her head at him. “Your staff is fine, but someone has given you an inflated idea of what they pay us mercenaries, Hart. I’ll go three coppers and not a bit more.”

  “Three coppers isn’t enough to make it worth my time,” he said.

  “I guess you’ll just have to stay here and do the books then,” replied Aralorn with a commiserating pat on his arm. “Come on, Halven, let’s see who else we can find.”

  “All right, all right, three coppers it is,” grumbled Falhart, then he brightened. “Maybe I can find someone else to lay a bet with.”

  Aralorn examined his bearlike form and shook her head as she started for the training grounds. “And who are you going to find who will bet on a woman against a brute like you?”

  “You did,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, but I’ve fought you before.”

  They faced off in the old practice ground. It was cold, and the sand was packed hard, though the snow had been swept away. Once they started fighting, the cold wouldn’t matter. Aralorn wielded one of her staves while Falhart held a quarterstaff half again as large and twice as thick as hers. Halven had opted for a better perch on the corner of the stable roof.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to use a quarterstaff as well?” Falhart asked, watching her warily.

  “Only a brute like you gains an advantage wielding a tree,” she replied. “It’s all right, though; you’ll need all the advantages you can find, big brother.”

  Falhart laughed and tossed his staff lightly in the air. “You may have learned something in the past ten years, Featherweight. But so have I. What are the rules for this bout?”

  “Three points,” said Aralorn. “Any hit between the shoulders and waist is good. Arms, head, and below the waist doesn’t count.”

  “Right,” said Falhart, and he struck.

  His swing had more speed than a man of his size had any right to have. Aralorn stepped respectfully out of its path and tapped him gently on the temple.

  “Zap,” she murmured as she darted away, “you’re dead.”

  “No point,” grunted Falhart, sweeping at her knees.

  Rather than avoiding the sweep, Aralorn stepped lightly on the center of the quarterstaff between his hands and vaulted over his back. She touched her staff to his back twice in rapid succession before he had time to turn, and quickly bounced away.

  “Two points,” called one of the onlookers in a gleeful voice.

  She didn’t get away free though; as she jumped back, one end of his staff caught her in the diaphragm.

  “Oof.” Though the blow was light, Aralorn expelled a breath of air unexpectedly.

  Falhart backed away quickly, clearly worried. “Are you all right?”

  She shot him a mock-disgusted look. “I said ‘oaf,’ you ox. You’re going to lose this round if you treat me like your little sister.”

  “Just like to make certain my prey is feeling all right before I destroy it.” Falhart gave her a gentle smile as he circled her warily. “It’s more sporting that way. My point.”

  Aralorn shook her head. “Poor babbling fool, I think I must have hit his head harder than I meant to.”

  The two combatants exchanged merry grins before they went at it again. Falhart gained another point with a feint that he pulled back after she thought he was committed to the blow past the point he could alter it. In revenge she stuck her staff between his legs and toppled him to the ground.

  “’Ware, down it comes,” she deadpanned in the carrying cry of an axeman felling a tree.

  He caught her in the ribs as he came rolling to his feet. “Too busy being funny, Featherweight. Lost you the game.”

  She shook her head in mock despair. “Beaten by a man . . . I’ll never live it down.”

  Falhart patted her gently. “Poor little girl—oof.”

  Aralorn removed her elbow from his midsection. “Don’t patronize me after you’ve beaten me. Losing puts me in a foul temper.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Lord Kisrah cordially, stepping onto the training grounds, Wolf at his heels. “Lady, if you would walk with me a bit? In private?”

  She’d barely had a chance to warm up and had been planning on a few more rounds with Falhart before she was done. But she preferred the real battle to sparring bouts.

  “Certainly, Lord Kisrah. I will leave the scene of my defeat, and my opponent can go back to accounts.”

  The triumphant look faded from Falhart’s face. “Thanks for the reminder—but remember, you owe me three coppers.” He waited until she started fumbling with her purse, then he said, “Double or nothing this time tomorrow?”

  He was p
lanning something; she could hear it in his voice. “Five coppers altogether. No more,” she said.

  “You’ve got it, Featherweight.” He gave in much too easily. He was planning some mischief or other.

  She frowned at him, and he grinned unrepentantly. “I’d better get back to the accounts,” he said, and took his leave.

  Kisrah extended his arm, and Aralorn set her staves against the stable wall before shaking her head at him. “You don’t want to touch me right now,” she said, pulling on her overtunic, sweater, and cape. “Save good manners for when I’m not sweaty.”

  He gave a half bow, sending the long ribbons in his hair a-fluttering as he let his arm fall gracefully to his side. “As you wish, Lady Aralorn.”

  “We could go to the gardens,” she suggested, trailing her fingers over Wolf’s ears.

  Kisrah and Wolf fell in step on either side of her as she led the way to Irrenna’s pride and joy.

  In the summer, the gardens were beautiful, but the winter left nothing more than frost-covered barren branches and gray stalks pressing up through the snow. The walks were swept, though, so they didn’t have to wade through the drifts.

  “I know it’s chilly,” apologized Aralorn, “but no one much comes here in the winter.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “So why didn’t we come here yesterday instead of riding out in the cold?”

  “Because now you know who Wolf is,” she said. “I was worried how you would react. A body is much easier to hide outside the keep walls.”

  He stopped walking. “I’d laugh if I didn’t think you were serious.”

  “Maybe a bit,” she said. “Come, let’s move while we talk; it’ll keep us warm.” She was aware without actually looking at him that her uncle had followed them and was making lazy circles around them.

  “Did you see Falhart’s face?” asked Wolf. “He thinks you threw the fight.”

  “What do you think?” she asked blandly.

  “I think you got cocky and lost.”

  “You know me so well,” she admitted.

  Kisrah gave Wolf a baffled frown. “Are you sure you’re Cain?”