“Peace, child,” replied the hawk with amusement. “Kessenih worries overmuch. I have dealt with the quorum before, and I will again. They need me more than I need them.”
SIX
There was a guard seated just outside the entrance to the bier room. She’d told Irrenna the room was warded, but apparently someone thought that Aralorn’s wards would be insufficient to keep people away. Since they might have been right—if Aralorn had set the wards—she was amused rather than offended.
The guard rose to his feet as they entered. “Lady Aralorn.”
“It might be wise if you leave for a candlemark or two,” she said. “My uncle has agreed to look at the Lyon, and he might work some magic. If anyone asks you, tell them it is on my authority.”
He probably wouldn’t be in any danger, but the shadow that guarded the Lyon worried her. There was no way to tell what it was capable of until they knew more about it. If Wolf and Halven were going to be prodding it with magic, she’d prefer to keep the defenseless away.
The guardsman glanced at the hawk riding her shoulders and blanched a bit, letting his gaze slide to the safety of her human face. “As you say, Lady. I’ll report to the captain, then return in two candlemarks.” So saying, he started off with suspiciously brisk steps.
But she must have been wrong about how much her uncle frightened him because he stopped abruptly and turned back. “The Lyon gave me my first sword and taught me to use it.”
“Me, too,” she said.
“Luck and the Lady be with you,” he said, then executed an about-face and continued on his way.
As soon as the guard was out of sight, Wolf trotted to the entrance to the alcove where the Lyon lay in state. He sniffed at it suspiciously.
“What is it?” asked Aralorn.
Wolf shifted abruptly to human form, wearing his usual mask to hide his face from her uncle. He ran his fingers carefully over the edge of the entrance.
“Someone’s attempted the warding,” he said.
“What?” asked Aralorn. She touched the stone where he had, but she could only feel the power of his wards. The human magic was beyond her ability to decipher for subtleties.
“Someone started to unwork the wards I set this morning. He left off halfway, as if something interrupted him, or he decided not to go on with it.”
“Maybe he couldn’t get through,” she suggested.
He shook his head. “No, he knew what he was doing—he could have dispelled it.”
“Nevyn?” she suggested.
He shrugged, then touched the air just in front of the curtain, letting his hands rest on the surface of the warding. “I can’t tell, but it must have been him. Unless there are other mages who live in Lambshold. I wonder if he recognized my work.”
“Could he?”
“Maybe.”
“Irrenna said she was calling on Kisrah for help—though I wouldn’t have thought she could get a message to him so soon,” Aralorn said. “Nevyn is the more likely candidate. As far as I know, there are no other trained mages on my father’s lands right now. I’ll ask around, though.” What if Nevyn figured out Wolf was here?
“If the wards were not breached, what does it matter?” asked Halven.
“Wolf is not very popular among the wizards right now,” said Aralorn. Though Geoffrey ae’Magi had disappeared without a trace in a keep filled with hungry Uriah, rumor had attributed his death to his son Cain—who was also her Wolf.
“Oh Mistress of the Understatement,” murmured Wolf, “I salute you.”
Her uncle clacked his beak in an irritated fashion and launched off her shoulder, taking human shape as he landed.
“I know of a human mage that many of the mages are searching for,” he said.
Aralorn raised her chin, and Halven laughed. “No need to look daggers at me, child. I can hold my tongue. What need have I to please a scruffy lot of bungling human mages?”
She stared at him, but Wolf, either easier to appease or not as worried, released the warding with a quick gesture of his left hand, saying, “Past time we attended to our immediate business.” He threw back the curtain and exposed the Lyon’s dark chamber to the light from lamps in the mourning room.
Aralorn’s father lay unchanged upon the bier. Wolf reached into a shadowed area and pulled out his staff from wherever it had been since he left it in the woods. As he took it up, the crystals that grew out of the top flared brightly before settling into a blue-white glow that chased the darkness from the room where the Lyon rested.
Halven strode through the entrance and Aralorn followed him, leaving Wolf to close the curtains and hide their activities from prying eyes.
Halven looked closely at the bier for a moment before turning to Aralorn. “I thought you said there was a creature guarding him. I see—by faith!”
Aralorn twisted around to look toward Wolf also. Against the wall, where there should have been no shadows at all, there was a subtle dimness that oozed slowly down the stone. It was only a little darker than the room itself, almost as if it were her imagination painting monsters. She turned back to Halven and opened her mouth to speak, when her uncle’s rough grip pulled her aside and behind him.
Wolf, too, had turned to see what caused Halven’s exclamation. The shadow caught his eye just as it touched the floor and abruptly shot forward. It rippled swiftly over the stones, flowing around Wolf on both sides, like a stream of water around a rock—though no part of the shadow touched him. It drew to a halt in front of Halven, stopped by the barrier of the shapeshifter’s magic.
Shielding, thought Wolf, recognizing the patterning though the magic Halven used was different. Even as he thought it, the shadow-thing oozed through a hole in the shield spell that hadn’t been there an instant before. Halven responded with another shield, but that obviously wouldn’t answer for long.
The power of Halven’s magic called answering force from Wolf. He could feel magic seeping in from the old stones that surrounded him, enticing him with its nearness, but he feared its ability to do more than its designated task. With an effort so fierce that it left him with a headache, he forced the green magic away.
Instead, he reached for the more familiar forces he had always worked with. Though outwardly more destructive than green magic, the raw magic that was the stuff human mages could weave responded to his control as a harp to an old bard.
With careful dispatch, he created an adaptation of the magelight spell, seeking to cancel shadow with light. His spell should have flared with white light as it touched the shadow, but nothing happened. The creature might have expanded a little, but he wasn’t certain. It paused, then threw the light spell at Halven.
Wolf felt the surge of force Halven called upon to block both the light and the creature, felt it as if it were coming from his own hands. The brilliant light was swallowed by Halven’s open palm, and once more, the creature was turned away.
Wolf knew the other mage had begun to tire; the flow of Halven’s magic had become erratic though no less powerful. The shapeshifter was doing all he could to keep the creature back; it was up to Wolf to stop it from getting Aralorn. Oh, it might have been trying to get her uncle, but bone-deep instinct told him that was not true.
Something about the way the thing absorbed his spell reminded him of demons—which reminded him of a spell.
Before he started to gather magic, he found himself abruptly filled with more than he could use. Startled, he paused, and the magic began to form its own spell. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized the magic he held was green magic.
He controlled his frustration and ruthlessly broke the weaving already begun, stripping the natural magic of its essence and turning it back to the chaotic energy of the wild, but less willful, magic human wizards used. This he wove and focused, ignoring the pain that backlashed through him from his struggles.
The spell he chose was only to be found among the books of the black mages, for it had one use: to hold demons safely when they were summoned unbo
und. However, the spell required neither death nor blood, so he patterned it—hoping anything that could hold a demon would hold the shadow-creature as well.
The spell finished, he threw it at the creature, careful that it did not touch Halven. To his relief, it fell as it should have, a glowing circle of light containing everything in the room between Halven and Wolf. He held his breath as the shadow touched the light and drew back from the binding, prowling restlessly within the circle’s confines.
Wolf shrank the boundaries until the shadow was enclosed in a circle the size of a foot soldier’s shield. The creature cowered in the small area in the center of the spell, where it shivered, small and dark, like a slug exposed to open air.
The green magic he had not used continued to fight him, struggling for the freedom to complete the pattern it had begun. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with it when he got it under control. Human mages were very careful to draw only as much power as they needed, since magic left unformed was dangerous. He had no idea what a similar situation with green magic would do.
The magic fought against his dominance like a wild stallion bridled for the first time, and he found himself losing his grip on it. Reaching for a firmer hold, he found that he was grasping nothing; the green magic had faded, dissipating like fog in the sun.
He would have felt more reassured if he thought it was gone rather than merely biding its time. Sweating beneath his mask, he turned his attention to his companions. As he did so, he realized he hadn’t struggled with the magic for as long as he thought: Halven and Aralorn had just closed in on his prisoner, apparently unaware of the battle he’d just barely won. Grateful for the mask that hid his features, he turned his attention to the shadow-creature.
“Baneshade,” said Halven, looking at the creature. “Interesting.”
“What’s a baneshade?” asked Aralorn.
Wolf stepped to the edge of the binding and examined the thing himself, saying, “I hadn’t thought of that. They used to be quite common, I understand. The wizards before the Wizard Wars used them. They were nasty little creatures who lived in dark places, usually where magic had been performed—deserted temples and the like. On their own, they’re said to be harmless enough, but they can work like a sigil—keeping a human spell going for an indefinite length of time.” He paused. “Or they can store power. They were supposed to have the ability to alter some spells a little, too. I had assumed they were long gone.” He was pleased that his voice came out as controlled as it usually was.
“It didn’t act like something that was harmless,” said Aralorn.
“I saw another one once,” commented Halven. “When I was younger, I sometimes wandered from place to place. There was a deserted building—not much larger than a hut, really. I was told it was haunted by the ghost of one of the great wizards from the time of the Wizard Wars. The building didn’t feel that old to me, but it did have a baneshade. It took me a while to find a name for the thing.” He turned his attention to Wolf. “Why didn’t you try capturing it that way before?”
“I didn’t even think of it.” It was black magic, and he tried not to use it. He didn’t have to use blood to call enough power to build the spell, but most other human mages would have.
Halven raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. Instead, he turned to the bier. “Now that that’s taken care of, I suppose I should look at this spell.”
He laid his hand on the Lyon’s head and began humming in a rich baritone. After a moment he pulled back and looked at Wolf. “I think it’s human magic. But there is something else as well. Perhaps you ought to look.”
Wolf looked at the shadow his magic held. “Hold a moment. I need to fix the spell so I can work other magic.”
He drew a sign on the stone floor with his finger, then touched the glowing circlet. The symbol he’d drawn flared orange before disappearing. “That should hold it.”
He released the spell, knowing that the rune would maintain the spell for the time he needed. Stepping past it, he approached the bier. Like Halven, Wolf laid his palm on the Lyon’s forehead. With his free hand, he gestured in a controlled motion as he closed his eyes.
“Black magic,” he said finally, pulling away. “I still can’t tell if it is human or not, but I’ll take your assessment. I don’t recognize the patterning, but it’s been muddled enough it could be anyone—maybe the baneshade’s work. It almost has the feel of a collective effort, but it is hard to tell. There is a second spell as well, but it doesn’t seem to have been activated. Hopefully, Lord Kisrah can unravel it.”
Halven nodded in satisfaction. “I thought it felt as if there was more than one hand involved.”
“Can you break the spell that holds him?” asked Aralorn.
“Not this one,” said Halven.
Wolf shook his head. “Lady, I could try. I would rather wait until I find out just what the spell is, though. I’ve never seen its like. It will be far less dangerous to your father if I know what I’m working with.”
Halven tapped his finger idly on the stone bier. “Why didn’t anyone else notice he wasn’t dead? Surely someone should have noticed his body didn’t behave properly?”
“He’s not breathing, has no pulse, and is as cold as stone,” answered Aralorn. “What was there to notice?”
Halven’s brows rose. “His body didn’t stiffen as a corpse would.”
“Well,” said Aralorn, looking for an explanation, “Kurmun rode here with Father from the croft—that would not have been long enough for a corpse to rigor. It is traditional to leave a body in the cellar for a full day before dressing it out—to give the spirit time to depart. There was no reason for anyone to notice.”
“A useful tradition,” observed Wolf. “It is so much easier to work with a pliable corpse.”
Halven smiled grimly. “So if you had not come, he would have been buried?”
Aralorn nodded, but Wolf said, “There’s no way to tell, is there? I think perhaps someone would have conveniently discovered it at the last moment—and would have seen to it that word was sent to Aralorn, as the family’s own green mage. Perhaps it would have been suggested that shapeshifter magic had done this.”
“You think this was set to draw me here?” asked Aralorn.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But it is significant that the Lyon is held by black magic when his daughter is”—he paused—“has a friend who has the reputation of being the last black mage—the rest being controlled by the ae’Magi’s power over them. I think that it is further interesting that the baneshade was inactive until you walked in—and it has been after you ever since.”
“What would it want with me?” asked Aralorn.
“I believe the spell that it attempted to place on you when we first discovered it is the same one that binds your father. Perhaps the person who engineered all of this decided he wanted more certain bait.”
“Bait for you.” She considered it.
“Someone would have to want you very badly to go to this much trouble,” commented Halven.
“Yes,” admitted Wolf. “Quite a few people do.”
Despite the seriousness of the subject, Aralorn grinned. “Every woman wants to find herself a man who is desired by so many others.”
“Why were they so careful to make certain the Lyon lives?” asked Halven, ignoring Aralorn. “It would have been just as easy to kill him. Aralorn would have come to pay her last respects.”
“Perhaps the one who set the spell likes him,” replied Wolf, and Aralorn knew he was thinking of Nevyn. “Sometimes, Aralorn, the most obvious answer—”
His speech stopped as he felt the ripple of his hold spell dissolving. He shifted his gaze to see what had happened just in time to observe the last of the daylight fade and the shadow flow across the stone floor. Wolf didn’t have a chance to gather magic, or even call out a warning—the baneshade was moving too fast . . .
A surge of green magic, his own magic, flared suddenly. There was so much of it tha
t the whole room glowed with the unearthly midnight blue light that flowed down his staff like wax from a candle.
The room looked sinister and nightmarish, full of darkness and deep shadows. At Aralorn’s feet, a bare handspan from her heel, the baneshade hissed, glowing ice blue—lighter by far than anything in the room—held in place by Wolf’s magic.
Aralorn, quick acting and quicker witted, jumped away from it, stopping only when she touched the wall. Wolf began belatedly seeking dominion of the magic before it could do anything more. Although its initial action was beneficial, Wolf didn’t want to chance harming Aralorn or Halven.
As he reached for it, he discovered it was already weaving itself into a pattern of destruction that allowed him no room to gain control. The light began to concentrate around the baneshade, flowing from the corners of the room until the cool white illumination from the staff dominated once more.
Glowing a deep indigo, his magic appeared viscous as it surrounded the creature, consolidating in a thick mass near the floor. There was a moment of stasis, then a fog began to rise from the blue-black base, a fog that had the odd effect of illumination and concealment at the same time.
By the curious radiance of the fog, the baneshade appeared to have a solid form, but it didn’t last long enough to be certain. Wolf caught a glimpse of fine downy fur before the outer surface began to bubble and dissolve with a terrible stench that reminded him of something long dead at the first touch of the fog. Flesh and bones were revealed in turn, each dissolving with a speed that testified to the power of the magic that consumed it. In the end, there was nothing left but the vaporous mist of darkness at Wolf’s feet and a malodorous scent that permeated the room.
In that moment, when the destruction was complete, Wolf tried again to dominate his magic. Cold sweat ran down his back, and for a moment, all he could see were flames melting stone, destructive magic only he could call tearing apart everything in its path. He blinked and set the memory aside with the conviction that someone was about to die. His magic was good at killing. He needed coolness that fear would interfere with if he was going to keep everyone safe, keep Aralorn safe.
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