Wolfsbane (34 page)

“That sounds like a good idea to me,” said Kisrah. “Do you need any help?”

Wolf shook his head. “No. There are only two rune books he used—it wasn’t Father’s forte either.”

Kisrah bit his lip. “May I talk to you in private before you go, Cain?”

Wolf raised one eyebrow in surprise. “Certainly.” He took Aralorn’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I’ll be back this evening.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Fine.”

He turned back to the Archmage. “Shall we walk?”

Kisrah led the way to the frozen gardens, making no attempt to talk until they were out in the cold.

“Cain, the Master Spells are missing—or rather half of them are.”

“What?” Shock broke through Wolf’s preoccupation with the spell he would have to perform in order to free Aralorn’s father.

“Haven’t you noticed?”

Wolf shook his head, still feeling disbelief—the Master Spells held the fabric of wizardry together. “They haven’t had any effect on me for a long time.”

“Without the spells, the position of ae’Magi is no more than a courtesy title. I have no way of controlling a rogue wizard, no way of detecting black magic unless I am in the proximity of whoever is working it. When I found them in Geoffrey’s library, the pages that contained the ae’Magi’s half of the rune spells were missing.”

Ah,
thought Wolf, as he said, “I don’t know where they are.”

“I believe you,” said Kisrah, leaving Wolf feeling odd—as if he’d braced himself for an attack that hadn’t come. “You had no motive to take them. If anyone could have controlled you with them, Geoffrey would have done so a long time ago. Do you know where he would have hidden them?”

“The only time that I saw them, they were in the ae’Magi’s grimoire in the vault in the library.”

“They are no longer there. If you find them—”

“I’ll bring them to you. It’s not rogue wizards that bother me; it’s what will happen if everyone realizes you no longer control them.”

“Witch hunts,” agreed Kisrah grimly.

Wolf nodded. “I’ll look out for them, but don’t be surprised if I don’t find them. Father wasn’t the only wizard who dabbled in the black arts—I know there were at least two others. It would be worth their lives to keep them from you.”

Kisrah swore heatedly. “I hadn’t thought of that. Who are they?”

Wolf shrugged. “I don’t know their names, and they kept their faces hidden. Do you still have the other half of the spells?”

Kisrah nodded. “We hid them as soon as it was clear that something had happened to Geoffrey’s.”

“I’ll look,” promised Wolf again, then turned away from the ae’Magi.

“Cain,” Kisrah said.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Wolf swept him a low bow before heading briskly out of the gardens. He would look, but he suspected the spells were long gone, maybe destroyed. Not entirely a bad thing, he decided after a while. Geoffrey ae’Magi could not have been the only ae’Magi who used them for other than their intended purposes, otherwise there wouldn’t be so many black grimoires left after ten centuries.

He had a library to visit with more urgent business. More than he needed his father’s books, he needed a quiet place.

Aralorn waited until Gerem and Nevyn followed the other mages out the door before turning to the chicken in the crate.

“Coming out, Halven?” she asked.

The hen let out a startled squawk.

She pulled the lid off the crate and shook her head. “Don’t give me that. If you wanted to remain anonymous, you could have made your clucks less pointed. Otherwise, I’d never have thought to check to see if the chicken was really a chicken. I never have been able to switch from one sex to the other.”

The hen jumped to the top of the crate and landed on the floor as her uncle—this time in the form of a tall red-headed man wearing the clothes of one of the Trader Clans. “Having you around makes spying much more interesting,” he said, sounding pleased.

“What would you have done if he’d been ready to unwork the spell and tried to sacrifice you?” she asked.

He grinned. “I wouldn’t have let him slit my throat, but I was pretty sure that he’d want to consider the spells for a while.”

“Be that as it may, I for one am glad you’re here. How much do you know about human magic?”

Halven raised his eyebrows. “Less than Wolf, I imagine.”

“He’s busy—and I’m not certain that it’s something I want to discuss with him right now. Just how powerful would a dreamwalker have to be in order to control a howlaa?”

“Ah, dreamwalking is not just a human talent, and I do know a little something about it.” He scratched his chin. “Howlaas are magical creatures, much more difficult to influence than a half-fledged boy like Gerem. Dreamwalking is more common among us than among the humans, but we don’t tend to be nearly as powerful. I know two dreamwalkers; only one of them can dreamspeak. We don’t even have stories of dreamwalkers who can influence others the way Gerem was, except for the—what was it you called it? Ah yes, the Dreamer.”

“Now you’ve heard the whole story of the spell on the Lyon. Do you still think that a dead dreamwalker couldn’t do this?”

“Maybe one could,” he said. “Kisrah and Nevyn’s part, yes. I am less certain of whoever held your brother in thrall—I’d think that would take a fair bit of power. The howlaa? I just don’t see how a dead man would have the power to do that. But I haven’t talked to any dead dreamwalkers to be certain of it.”

“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “I should go talk to someone who knows more about dead people.”

The wind was gusty as Aralorn took the path to the temple, but it didn’t bother her as much today. Perhaps her lessons on centering helped her to block the voices more effectively, or else the ability was fading with time. She rather hoped for the latter.

The temple doors stood open, so she rode directly there, dismounted, and left Sheen standing outside.

“Tilda?” she called softly. The room appeared deserted, though by no means empty. In spite of the open door, it was warm inside, but there was no sign of a fire. She shivered and backed out of the temple, closing the doors carefully behind her.

Leading Sheen toward the little cottage, she told him, “I don’t know why that should unnerve me when I run around with wizards and shapechangers, but it does.”

There was a hitching post in front of the cottage, and Aralorn dropped Sheen’s reins beside it.

“Be good,” she said, and patted him on the shoulder before taking the shoveled path to the door of the cottage.

“Enter,” bade a cheerful voice when she knocked. “I’m in the kitchen, baking.”

Sure enough, when Aralorn opened the door, the smell of warm yeast billowed out.

“It’s me, Aralorn.” She followed the smell to find Tilda up to her elbows in bread dough. “I see I caught you working.”

Tilda laughed. “Shh. Don’t tell. A priestess is supposed to stand around and look mysterious.”

“That’s all right, I generally get plenty of mysterious. Speaking of which, the temple door was opened. I shut it before I came here.”

Tilda smiled. “Well then, we both welcome you here.”

“Thank you,” said Aralorn with what aplomb she’d managed to develop running around with Wolf. “I came because I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Me or the priestess?”

Aralorn shrugged. “Whichever one can answer my questions. Geoffrey ae’Magi is dead, right?”

“Yes,” Tilda answered without hesitation. “Ridane sometimes tells me when significant people die.”

Aralorn let out a harsh breath of relief. She’d been pretty sure of it, but hearing it was better. She could deal with him dead—it was the living Geoffrey who had scared the courage out of her. “A great many people, including the current ae’Magi, are convinced that his spirit is dreamwalking around Lambshold. Is that possible?”

“Dreamwalking?” Tilda stopped kneading her bread and looked thoughtful. “I don’t know.” She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.

Something stirred in the air. It wasn’t magic, but it was like enough to it that Aralorn could feel it drift through her and wrap itself about the priestess.

When Tilda opened her eyes, the pupil filled her iris, making her eyes appear almost black. “No,” she said. “There are a few ghosts in the area, old things for the most part. But nothing strong enough to influence the living.”

Aralorn nodded slowly. “That’s what I needed to know. Thank you.” She turned to go.

“Wait,” said the priestess. “There is something ...”

“Yes?”

Tilda stared at her bread for a moment before looking up. She was pale as milk, and her pupils were contracted as if she stood in the noonday sun rather than in a cozy but rather dim cottage. “If you are not very careful and very clever, there will be several more deaths soon.”

“I am always clever,” responded Aralorn, with more humor than she felt. “Careful, we may have to work around.” Tilda still looked upset, so Aralorn added, “I know that there is danger. It should not take me long to discover what has been happening these last few weeks. Once I know that—I’ll know what can be done.”

“Ridane says that the web is spun, and one person at Lambshold will die no matter what you do.”

Aralorn had not dealt with gods much, but she was a firm believer in writing her own future. She was not about to let Ridane decide the fate of her family and friends. “I’ll do what I can. Thank you, Tilda. You’ve helped a great deal.”

Nevyn,
she thought as she mounted Sheen.
It is Nevyn.

The stallion snorted and sidled and generally kept her attention until they were well on their way back to Lambshold. As she’d listened to Gerem’s story, she had known it wasn’t Geoffrey. If Geoffrey had known that there was a mage of Gerem’s potential, untrained, at Lambshold, he would have moved mountains to get to him—untrained mages gave him so much more power than trained mages. So Geoffrey hadn’t known about Gerem before he died. And, as a dead man seeking revenge, he would not have used Gerem to do his work—he’d have used Anasel. Surely a doddering old man who had been a great mage would have been a better target. But Nevyn avoided Anasel as he avoided most of the mageborn if he could. If he needed two other mages to help him, it would be Kisrah and Gerem. But Nevyn would never hurt her father.