Wolfsbane (29 page)

“What is Kisrah’s specialty?”

“By the time a mage becomes a master, he has more than one area of expertise.”

“You knew him before that,” she persisted. “What was his field?”

“Moving things.”

“Like translocation?” asked Aralorn.

“Yes.” Wolf sighed heavily and slowed. “But he worked more with objects and delicate things—like picking locks or unbuckling saddle girths.”

“No wonder Father likes him,” she observed, relieved that he’d decided to talk. “Saddle girths and horseshoes have lost as many battles as courage and skill have won. What was Nevyn’s specialty?”

“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.”

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 before 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.