Wolfsbane (24 page)

From her perch on the stairs, Tilda leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. “We wish you nothing but the best.”

Wolf drew back, startled at the gesture. He started to say something, but shook his head instead. Without a word or an excess bit of magic, he shifted to his lupine form.

Aralorn looked at the priestess with full approval. “Now, do you still want me to shift for you?”

Tilda shook her head with a sigh. “It’s not necessary. I had no idea that he was anything other than a wolf.”

Aralorn laughed. “Neither did my uncle the shapeshifter—and we can usually tell our kind. Hold a moment.” She knew her change wasn’t as graceful or impressive as Wolf’s, but it was swift. She chose the icelynx because she’d been working on it and because someday she might have to spend some time at the temple: She didn’t want Tilda to be looking too hard at strange mice.

She arched her back to rid herself of the final tingles of the change. The shadows held fewer secrets in this form, but there were fewer colors as well. Staring at the priestess’s face, Aralorn could see a hint of satisfaction in Tilda’s eyes.

No,
Aralorn thought,
this should be a fair exchange of favors.
She lay down on the floor and began tentatively to hide herself within the icelynx’s instincts. She was better with the mouse—and it was less dangerous that way, but she trusted that Wolf would stop her if she lost control of her creation. When she had done what she could to disguise herself, she waited for ten heartbeats, then allowed herself to reemerge.

Hiding so deeply always left her with a headache to remind her why she seldom went to such extremes. She stood up, shook herself briskly, then shifted back to human form.

“Well,” asked Aralorn, rubbing her arms briskly, “could you tell I was not the real thing?”

Tilda took a deep breath and loosened her shoulders with a rolling motion. “When you first changed, yes, but for a moment while you lay still, no.”

“I think then you should be all right. Most of the shapeshifters don’t care to get that deep into their creations,” said Aralorn. “There’s always the chance that the shaper might get lost in his shape.”

“Thank you,” said Tilda. “I found that to be most . . . enlightening.”

Me, too,
thought Aralorn, who had learned that a cleric mage was going to be harder to get her mouse shape past than human mages were—but not impossible.

Correy edged his horse even with Sheen, but waited until Aralorn made eye contact before speaking. “We only have two weeks to break this spell.”

Aralorn nodded. “I think it’s time to really talk with the ae’Magi. I may know some things he doesn’t. Perhaps together we might think of something.”

“Why did you ask the question about the Dreamer?” queried Gerem, pushing forward until he was on Falhart’s off side. “It is just a story.”

Though her other brothers rode coursers, bred for speed and ease of gait, Gerem’s horse, like Sheen, was bred for war. Younger than Sheen, with a rich sorrel coat, there was something in the horse’s carriage that reminded Aralorn strongly of her own stallion. His nostrils were flared, and his crest bowed, though Gerem rode with a light hand—Sheen did the same when she was upset.

There was something about the deliberately casual tone combined with his horse’s agitation that planted an odd thought in her head. She sat back, and Sheen halted abruptly, forcing the men to stop also for politeness’s sake. Gerem appeared surprised at her reaction to his question, but she didn’t allow that to speed her tongue.
Thirteen,
she thought,
Gerem is thirteen.

“How,” she said finally, “have you been sleeping at night lately? Have you been having bad dreams?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “And if I have?”

“Are they dreams of our father?” she speculated softly. “Perhaps you dreamed of his death before he actually fell?”

Gerem paled.

“Aralorn,” said Falhart sharply, “pick on someone up to your fighting weight. Anyone can have seemings.”

“Not seemings,” said Aralorn firmly, not removing her eyes from Gerem’s face. “They felt like reality, didn’t they?”

Without warning, Gerem slipped his feet out of his stirrups and dropped to the ground. He made it into the bushes before they all heard the sounds of his being violently ill.

Guilt caused Aralorn more than a twinge of discomfort as she dismounted as well.

Gerem reappeared looking, if anything, paler than before. “I thought it was a dream,” he said hollowly. “It had to have been—I don’t know anything about magic or how it works. But I dreamed of lighting a fire and making a great magic. It burned until I thought the flesh was coming off my hands. I thought it was a dream, but when I awoke, the farm had been torched, and there were ashes on my boots. I . . . think”—he stopped and swallowed heavily, then said it all in a rush—“I think I must have put the spell on Father.”

“Nonsense,” said Falhart bracingly.

“Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Correy.

“I think you might be right,” murmured Aralorn thoughtfully if unkindly. Then she continued quickly. “No, now don’t look at me like that. It certainly wasn’t his fault if he did. You asked me why I inquired about the Dreamer. This is the kind of thing it was supposed to be able to do. It seduced its victims into doing what it wanted, either by promising them something they wanted or by making them think they were doing something else.” She looked at their solemn faces. “It is said that the Tear of Hornsmar had a dream one night. A serpent attacked him in his bed. When he awoke, he turned to tell his mistress, Jandrethan, of his nightmare—which was still vivid in his mind. He found that she had been beheaded by his own sword, which he still clutched in his right hand.”

“But the Dreamer is just a story,” said Gerem. “Like—like—dragons.”

“Ah,” said Aralorn, swinging lightly back into the saddle. “But so are shapeshifters, my lad. And I am living proof that sometimes the stories have facts behind them.” She crossed her arms over the saddlebow and shook her head at him, but when she spoke, her voice was gentle. “Don’t take it to heart so, Gerem. Like enough there was nothing you could have done about it anyway.”

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.”