Wolfsbane

  “Wolf,” she said, “I—”

  “I know,” he said with a wicked smile glinting in his eyes. “We’ve done enough work for now.” The smile left his eyes, and his hands traced her face.

  “I’ve never had a family before,” he said in wonder. “Not really. It feels so strange to belong to you and have you belong to me.”

  She looked up at him and opened her lips, but she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t tell him that she’d married him to force him to take care of himself, not when it obviously meant so much more to him than that. Come to think of it, it meant a lot more than that to her as well. It was just that . . . Wolf had belonged to her for a long time in a way that tied them far more than any goddess could.

  She reached up and tugged at his mask, and he let it fall into her hands.

  “Don’t hide from me,” she said.

  Dropping the cold silver false face on the floor, she pulled his head down so she could kiss him fully.

  Wolf held her while she slept, and smiled. His wife was a manipulative minx; but then, he’d known that for a long time. The difference between her and his father was that she manipulated people for their own good—or at least what she perceived to be the greater good. He wondered when she’d break down and tell him.

  How could she think that he wouldn’t know what she’d done? As soon as the priestess placed the blood-bond between them, he’d realized what it was, had known what Aralorn had tried to do. He was not a well-trained mage in most areas, but black magic he knew well. A blood-bond was well within his area of expertise.

  He sent a caress through the tie the death goddess had placed between them, and Aralorn sighed, shifting against him.

  He could sever it when he needed to. He’d tell her that after she managed to confess her deed—he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her a little and teach her a lesson about trying to manipulate him as she did the rest of the world.

  “If you had known how to find me, you would have come to me when you were told your father had died,” he said softly, and, remembering her face when he’d shown up at Lambshold, he knew it was true. How odd that someone loved him. That Aralorn loved him.

  He pulled her closer and relished the light feeling that had come over him, softening the edge of the inner core of rage that was always with him. He was happy, he thought with some surprise.

  If she thought so much of him, it might be worth the risk of the potential for disaster that clung to him through his magic. Maybe—he kissed the top of her head—maybe they could discover a way to control his magic rather than destroy it with his death.

  Aralorn awoke early and began planning what was best to do. She didn’t know if Kisrah would take his nighttime visitor’s information at face value or if he could tell that Wolf was Cain by some arcane human magic. Wolf said that he needed Kisrah’s help. There was a chance that Kisrah would attack Wolf the first time he saw him. She couldn’t risk it. She needed to talk to the Archmage first.

  She liked Kisrah, but if he reacted badly, she would kill him before he got a chance at Wolf—if she could. She certainly would hate to do something like that in front of witnesses. So she needed a meeting without Wolf and outside of Lambshold.

  Aralorn sat up and waited for Wolf to awaken. She wiggled a little. Nothing. She stared at him. Nothing. She reached her hands toward his side.

  He rolled over and caught them. “If you tickle me this early in the morning, I’ll see to it that you regret it.”

  She laughed. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Long enough,” he growled, completing his roll.

  Sometime later, he said, “Now, what was so important that you woke your husband up before the birds?”

  He liked that word, she’d noticed, liked being her husband and the formalization of their bonds to each other. Given how hard he’d tried to keep a distance from her from the beginning of their association, she found it unexpectedly touching.

  “Wasn’t this enough?” she asked, trying for a sultry tone. It wasn’t a role that she’d ever tried as a spy.

  He bit one of her fingers gently. “Yes. So let us go back to sleep.”

  She bit him back, harder.

  “Ouch,” he said obligingly, but without any real emphasis, so she didn’t feel that she had to apologize.

  “That’s what you get for trying to be funny. We need to go talk to Kisrah.”

  Wolf grunted, then said, “So, what have you plotted for the poor man?”

  Aralorn decided to overlook his attitude. “We’ll need to be careful—don’t you snort at me; I can be cautious when I have to be. I think I will take him on a ride along the trail to Ridane’s temple. Whoever visited him last night told him that you were Cain. I think that until I get a chance to talk to Kisrah, you need to stay out of sight.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You meant I need to be cautious.”

  She grinned. “You’re the one under the death sentence. Is Kisrah still under the influence of Geoffrey’s charisma spell?”

  “Probably,” he replied. “If I were my father, I certainly would take no chances as far as Kisrah or any other high-ranking mage was concerned.”

  “Can you break it?”

  She felt him shrug. “I don’t know, but that was my thought as well. If my father is truly dead and can work no more magic, and if he chose to ensure that Kisrah never be a problem as I believe he would have—I might be able to.”

  “It would be easier to get his cooperation if he didn’t attack me every time I said something nasty about his predecessor—and I don’t know how else to proceed.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

  Aralorn finally found Kisrah in the bier room with her father. He’d arisen earlier than she’d expected, and she’d missed him at breakfast. A few questions to scattered servants had sent her to her father’s bier.

  He looked up at the sound the curtain made as she entered and watched her with a hooded glance from his seat on one of the tables meant for gifts and flowers. He looked a bit like a gaudy bouquet in a combination of mauve and emerald that offended even Aralorn’s indifferent sense of style, but the bright array made the little room less somber.

  “Lady Aralorn,” he said, acknowledging her entrance after he’d returned her stare for several seconds.

  She bent and kissed her father’s slack face, taking a moment to reassure herself that he still lived, before turning back to the Archmage. “I visited the death goddess’s temple yesterday,” she said without preamble.

  “I know,” said Kisrah. “Correy told me.”

  She toyed with the front of the Lyon’s shirt, straightening it carefully where it had been pulled askew. Finished, she turned to the Archmage. “I owe you my apologies, sir. I have been rude. I know that you have come to help my father, and I’m sorry to be so secretive. My only excuse is that the last few days have been nerve-racking at best, and I’ve been a spy for long enough that questions make me nervous.”

  “You sought me out to apologize?” asked the Archmage with a touch of wariness.

  Although she noted that he hadn’t accepted her apology, Aralorn smiled and shook her head. “Not primarily, though it needed to be done. There are things that we should speak of, but outside of the keep walls. Would you ride with me?”

  Kisrah gazed at the stone floor. “Where is your wolf? I was under the impression that he went everywhere with you.”

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully and added a little bait. “That’s one of the things I need to speak with you about.”

  The Archmage leaned back against the wall. When he spoke, it seemed off the topic of discussion. “I fought a campaign against the Darranians with your father once, did you know?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Battles are odd things,” he said in musing tones. “Sometimes it seems as if you do nothing but hack and slash; at other times it seems as if you do nothing at all for weeks at a time. During the former, you learn a lot about your comrades by
their actions; during the latter, you learn about them from their speech.”

  His gaze rested on the Lyon’s quiet figure. “Your father is ferocious, tireless, and absolutely honorable. But more than that, he is cunning, always thinking—especially in the thick of battle, when everyone else is lost in bloodlust. He taught me a lot about how to judge men, to choose leaders and followers. He knew every man in our group and used them according to their strengths, and he tried to know as much about the men we fought as he did our own.” He reached out and touched the Lyon’s still face. “I learned to love him as much as I ever did my own father—as I expect every man to fight under him felt.”

  While he spoke, Aralorn half sat, half leaned against the bier. When he paused to make sure she was listening, she nodded.

  “While we waited for battle, we talked, your father and I. He told me something of you. He told me you’d fought with him against brigands here at Lambshold and said he’d rather have had you beside him than any three men. He’d have brought you to fight by his side as he did Falhart if it hadn’t been for his lady wife. He said you were clever, devious, and deadly—said you could outthink and outride any man he had with him, including himself.”

  “You have a reason for all this praise, I trust,” said Aralorn.

  Kisrah nodded, and a sudden grin lit his face. “Absolutely. First, let me say that I do not accept your apology, as I’m certain that you intended every frustrating minute of our last meeting—and enjoyed it as well. Devious and manipulative, your father said.”

  He sobered, and Aralorn thought it might be sadness that crossed his face. “But—despite what I have been told, having the father you do, you could not be without honor and decency. I hope that a productive talk might shed some light on a few things. I think that I, too, have some things to tell you that it were better to talk of outside these walls.” He paused, and continued softly. “You might bring your wolf.”

  Aralorn nodded. “I’m sure Wolf will join us at some point in our journey. Father’s got enough animals around here that you shouldn’t have a problem finding a mount: I assume by the speed of your arrival that you chose to translocate yourself—”

  She didn’t know why she’d brought that up until she realized she was watching his face for guilt. There was none, of course; he hadn’t realized what Geoffrey had done to her after Kisrah had used his magic to transport her into the ae’Magi’s care.

  Instead, Kisrah nodded, with a faint grimace of distaste. “Not my favorite spell, but it was important that I get here as soon as possible.

  “You’re a braver man than I am,” murmured Aralorn. “I’ll meet you in the stables. Ask Falhart if you need help finding warm clothing.”

  Aralorn had intended to take him only a short distance before stopping to talk, but she hadn’t counted on the wind. It kicked up when they were just out of sight of the keep.

  The voices screamed through her ears: screams that brought visions of Geoffrey’s dungeons and dying children, the cries of the Uriah—shambling, rotting things that had once been human but now only hungered. Sheen picked up on her agitation and began snorting and dancing in the snow, mouthing his bit uncertainly as he waited for an ambush to leap from the nearest bush.

  Hoping that the wind would settle down, she kept going. At this rate, they’d be at the temple before she could talk. She tried to ignore the wind for as long as she could, but at last she tucked the reins under her knees and tugged a woolen scarf from around her neck and wrapped it tightly around her ears.

  “Are you all right?” asked Kisrah.

  “I seem to have developed a bit of a problem with the wind,” she said truthfully: She tried to limit her lies when she could, especially when she was talking to wizards.

  “Earache?” said Kisrah with some sympathy.

  “I’m looking for someplace less windy,” she told him. “I hadn’t planned on riding all the way to the goddess’s temple for a little private conversation.”

  He smiled. “I could do with a little exercise anyway. But if you can find a sheltered place I might be able to do something about the wind.”

  She frowned at him. “You human mages,” she said. “Always so ready to impose your will where it doesn’t belong. There’s a small valley not too far from here; we’ll be free from the wind without any magic at all.”

  He looked startled for a moment. “I’ve never been referred to in quite those terms. Do you not think of yourself as human, then?”

  She smiled tightly, her tension owing more to the wind than any irritation with him. “No. But I won’t use the terms my shapeshifter cousins use for mageborn who use unformed magic. They aren’t flattering. Human will have to do.”

  As she’d thought it might, the steep sides of the valley—well, gully, really—provided some relief from the wind. Aralorn stopped Sheen and cautiously removed the scarf from her ears. The roar had died to a dull whisper she could safely ignore.

  “Why don’t you start, as you still owe me for your rudeness yesterday?” said Kisrah after he’d stopped and turned his horse so he faced her directly.

  “All right,” agreed Aralorn readily. “How much do you know about charismatic spells?”

  “What?” he asked in some surprise, but he answered her question without waiting for her to repeat herself. “I’ve never heard of one that was not black magic.”

  “Yes,” said Wolf from behind them, “they are. Of the blackest kind.”

  Aralorn turned to frown at Wolf. He was supposed to wait until she’d made certain that Kisrah wouldn’t attack him on sight. She supposed that it said something about Kisrah’s state of mind that he did not.

  Wolf was in human form, clothed as always in black—an affectation Aralorn was determined to change. It wasn’t that he didn’t look good in it, just that it was a bit morbid at times. The silver mask was nowhere evident, and the magic-scarred face looked worse than usual in the bright winter sunlight.

  “Cain,” said Kisrah softly, as if he hadn’t really believed what the specter had told him.

  Wolf bowed shallowly without letting his eyes drop from the Archmage’s. “Lord Kisrah.”

  “You are here to tell me the importance of . . . these charismatic spells, I assume?”

  Wolf shook his head. “I wouldn’t have mentioned them myself, but as Aralorn has seen fit to do so, I will explain—better yet, I’ll cast one.” He made an economical motion with his hand.

  Aralorn sucked in a breath at his recklessness. She would have thought the battle with his father would have cured him of seeking battle with another powerful mage. Couldn’t he have just told Kisrah how the spell worked?

  Kisrah looked white and strained, but he gestured with equal rapidity—a counterspell, thought Aralorn—or rather a breaking spell of some sort, because it wasn’t possible to directly counter an unknown spell.

  “Here,” said Wolf softly. “I’ll give you more magic to work with.”

  Aralorn didn’t see anything happen, but a moment later Kisrah swore and pulled a thick gold-and-ruby ring off his finger, tossing it into the snow. It must have been quite warm, as it fell quickly through to the ground, then melted a fair-sized hole around it that exposed the yellowed grass beneath.

  For Aralorn’s benefit, Wolf said, “He just broke the charisma spells—both of them.”

  Aralorn looked at the ring, seeing the magic imbued in it. “Both of them?”

  “Mine and my father’s.”

  Kisrah nodded, looking stunned as he stared at the ring. “Geoffrey gave me that ring. I can’t believe I didn’t see that it was runescribed. Why would he do that?”

  “My father,” observed Wolf, his hoarse voice sounding even dryer than usual, “was very good at making people overlook things when he chose.”

  “The ring was runescribed?” asked Aralorn. She put her hands on her hips and glared at Wolf. “So mages do use rings and amulets for spells.”

  “Not for warding spells,” said Wolf repressively. “The rune
s are too complex to fit on an amulet—at least a warding that would keep out much more than errant mice.”

  “Ensorcelled,” said the Archmage, ignoring their by-play. “A charm spell, indeed, but to what purpose?”

  “What indeed?” said Wolf.

  “The ae’Magi spread his charisma spell over a fair bit of territory before he met his untimely end,” said Aralorn. “Why do you think everyone loved him so? Even people who’d barely heard of him.”

  Kisrah stared at her.

  “Who would ever think that the reason there were so few children in the villages around the ae’Magi’s castle was because the ae’Magi was killing them for the power he could get from untrained mages?” she said.

  “He ...” Kisrah’s voice trailed off, then became firmer. “He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. A rune set in a ring—maybe. But I felt the power you had to use, Cain. No one could keep a spell like that running for long over more than a few people.”

  “No one worries about charisma spells,” agreed Wolf. “They require too much power to be of use, and the control of the ae’Magi bars black magic anyway. Unless, of course, you are the ae’Magi and are perfectly willing to turn elsewhere for your power. There are a lot of spells that require too much power without death magic, sex magic, or, at the very least, blood, aren’t there? Some spells that haven’t been worked since the Wizard Wars.”

  Kisrah flinched.

  “He gave you such a spell to work, didn’t he?” asked Aralorn softly. “He gave you the proof, himself, that he knew . . . that he knows black magic.”

  She wasn’t going to tell Kisrah that they weren’t sure that it was Geoffrey who had been visiting his dreams.