Aralorn had been going back through the information she’d given her brother and regretted some of it.
“Correy, for your own safety, don’t talk to anyone about the ae’Magi. His spell is waning, but it is by no means gone—most especially in connection with people he associated closely with, like Lord Kisrah. And I would appreciate it if you would try to keep Hart and Gerem from bandying Cain’s name about, for my safety. There are any number of mages who would like to have something to use against him, someone he cares about—like me.”
“You care about him, too,” said Correy.
“Yes,” she agreed without looking at Wolf. “I do.”
“I will try to keep the others quiet,” Correy promised. He patted her on the shoulder and walked down the wide aisle between stalls. As he left, the wind, which had been still all day, flitted through the open stable doors in a ragged gust.
Death is coming . . . Death and madness dreaming . . .
“Aralorn,” said Wolf sharply, coming to his feet.
She shivered, and, knowing he couldn’t hear the screaming shrieks, gave him a half smile. “I’m all right. It’s just the wind. Wolf, do you still think that talking to Kisrah is a good idea?”
“I don’t know that we have any other option,” he replied. “If he can tell me what spell was used to bind your father, I may be able to unweave it. It’s obvious Gerem, if he’s had any training at all, barely knows how to call a light spell; he couldn’t tell me what he did even if you could persuade him to talk to me. Kisrah will know what his part in the spell was. Otherwise, two weeks doesn’t give me a lot of time to prowl through old books for an answer. Whether Kisrah knew it before your father was ensorcelled or not, he obviously knows that I am involved with you. Talking with him won’t make matters any worse.”
“You don’t think that he’s the impetus behind this?”
“He could be,” he said. “But he has information we need—and now that I’m rested, I can handle Kisrah if he tries anything.”
“Then I’ll go look for him as soon as I finish with Sheen,” she said, and went back to work.
Grooming was soothing and required just enough thought that she could distract herself from the worry that the Lyon would gradually fade into death no matter what they could do, and that the possibility the ae’Magi (and no other man held that title in her heart of hearts for all that it now belonged to Kisrah) was still alive lingered. Most of all, she could allow the work to keep her from the confession she was beginning to dread more than all the other evils the future could hold: How was she going to tell Wolf that she’d married him to keep him alive? It had seemed a good idea at the time. However, she’d had a chance to think it over. Would he see it as another betrayal?
Sheen stamped and snorted, and Aralorn coaxed her hands to soften the strokes of the comb.
“Shh,” she said. “Be easy.”
NINE
It wasn’t as hard to find Kisrah as she had thought it might be. He was seated on a bench in the main hall, talking to Irrenna.
“Truthfully, I don’t know what can be done, Irrenna. I have to find the wizard who initiated the spell—and it’s no one I’ve ever dealt with before.” He yawned.
“We kept you up half the night with our problems,” said Irrenna apologetically.
He took her hand and kissed it. “Not at all, Lady. I have been having troubled dreams lately. Perhaps I’ll go up and rest.”
His words stopped Aralorn where she was, and an icy chill crept over her.
Aralorn had been sleeping just fine. Her own dreams had stopped when Wolf had come back to guard her sleep.
She’d been assuming that the dreaming had stopped because the one giving all of them dreams had either given up on her, changed his mind, or been kept out by some stray effect of Wolf’s power. What if it was something simpler than that? What if the dream sender was detectable in some way? Maybe he had stopped because he was worried Wolf would notice what he was doing.
Perhaps, she thought, perhaps it might be better to watch what happened when Kisrah was asleep before she spoke to him. She turned on her heels and left before anyone saw her.
“Why aren’t we chasing down Kisrah?” asked Wolf mildly.
She glanced around hurriedly, though she knew Wolf wouldn’t have said anything if anyone could have overheard.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I want to go spend some time with Father.”
Aralorn crouched on the rosewood wardrobe behind a green vase in the room Kisrah had been given. She’d spent most of the day avoiding the Archmage. She didn’t want to talk to him until after she’d done a little bit of spying.
When she told Wolf what she planned, he’d paid her the compliment of not arguing: Or at least he restrained himself to a few pithy comments about certain people’s rashness leading them into hot water. She’d left him to stew in her room, wolves being somewhat more unexpected guests than mice were. And, although he’d tried other shapes, the only one he could hold on to reliably was the wolf. If she didn’t see anything in Kisrah’s room, then she and Wolf could hide Wolf from her brother Gerem while he slept. Not even Wolf could conceal himself from the Archmage with magic.
She still hadn’t told him what she’d done by marrying him. She didn’t fear his anger—but she found that the thought of hurting him was painful. She’d have to do it soon, though. The whole thing would be worse than useless if he managed to get himself killed before she told him that his death would mean hers, too: There was one more reason than the obvious one that people didn’t lightly ask Ridane’s priests to officiate in weddings.
Her hiding place wasn’t ideal. It gave her a clear view of the bed while leaving her well concealed behind the vase, but there was nothing else to hide behind. If Kisrah saw her, she would be forced to run in the open.
The distance wouldn’t have been a problem if he hadn’t been a mage. Wizards had rather abrupt methods of dealing with mice, methods that could leave her no time to run.
It was as Aralorn’s vivid imagination came up with unusual and painful ways in which a wizard could dispose of a mouse that Kisrah came into the room. And, of course, if she managed to get herself killed—Wolf would die, too. The irony of that situation didn’t escape her. She sat very still in the shadow of the vase, not even allowing her itchy whiskers to twitch.
Kisrah seemed to be taking longer to get to bed than he needed to: tidying up the already painfully neat room, refolding an extra quilt at the end of his bed, and messing around in the wardrobe. As if, thought Aralorn hopefully as she cowered behind her vase, he was dreading facing his dreams.
Without his public mask, he looked even more tired than he had earlier. In the harsh illumination of the light spell he’d summoned rather than lighting the candles, he looked ten years older than he was.
“Gods, what a mess,” he said tiredly. As he was staring at the perfectly tidy bed when he spoke, Aralorn assumed he wasn’t talking about the room.
He stared at the bed a moment longer, then ran a hand through his artfully styled hair. With a sigh, he stripped out of his flamboyant clothes, leaving on only a pair of purple cotton half trousers.
Clothing in hand, he approached Aralorn’s chosen hiding place. The wardrobe swayed slightly as he opened the doors and hung his garments, and Aralorn wished that it were summer so there would at least have been some flowers in the vase to offer more cover. A taller wardrobe would have been nice, one that didn’t leave the top level with Kisrah’s gaze. She didn’t so much as twitch a whisker until he turned away.
A fire had been lit shortly after Aralorn had arrived in the room, and some of the winter dampness that plagued old stone buildings had left the air. Kisrah pulled a chair near the fireplace in front of the merry flames.
She gave a relieved sigh and tried not to stare at him; some people, most of the mageborn, could feel it when they were the center of attention. He gazed deeply into the rose-and-orange light of the burning pine an
d never turned his head toward the vase with the mouse settled behind it.
In spite of her precarious position, the warmth of the fire had Aralorn half-asleep herself before Kisrah finally pulled back the bedclothes, climbed between the muslin sheets, and put out his magelight. She shook herself gingerly, careful that her claws made no sound on the polished wood.
The lack of Kisrah’s magelight was no handicap to her rodent eyes—the dying embers of the fire provided more than enough light to see with. The rhythms of Kisrah’s breathing slipped slowly into sleep. Aralorn waited intently.
She couldn’t have pinpointed exactly what first alerted her to the second presence in the room. It could have been a slight sound or the fur on her back ruffling as if a chill wind had blown into the room, though the air remained still and comfortable.
She took her eyes from the bed in time to see a pale mist settle before the fire. Slowly, it condensed into a familiar form. The voice was so soft she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t been so close . . . perhaps she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t met the howlaa. It felt like that, sounds heard without her ears.
You were not to come here, Kisrah. Someone will connect you with the deed, then where will you be? Aralorn trembled with utter terror as she watched Wolf’s presumably dead father. His lips did not move, though she heard his voice clearly.
What have you done, my old friend? You said the spell was for Cain, to hold him without harm. It was Kisrah who spoke. She dared a glance at the bed, but Kisrah lay unmoving; to all appearances he was sleeping deeply.
And who would have used it on him? I was the most powerful mage in the world, and he destroyed me. Which of my friends should I have sent against him? You would have done it had I asked—but you would not have succeeded. Geoffrey’s voice was soft. Should I have let him kill you, too? I did what I had to. This way, no one is harmed.
There was a short pause, then Kisrah said, Why black magic? And why bring others into it, to blacken their souls as well?
If it were not black, any mage could unwork the spell. As for the others—Geoffrey’s voice softened with understanding —did you not try and unwork the spell? If it had been only one, anyone could have freed the Lyon. The time is not yet met for him to awaken. Have patience, all will be well.
Aralorn tried to make herself even smaller without moving so much as a hair. She very much would rather that neither of the participants in this bizarre conversation realized that there was a mouse listening to every word.
The Lyon will die if something is not done soon. She has no intention of bringing Cain into this, or she would have done it long since. No good can come of this, Geoffrey. Evil begets only evil. The magic that I, and whatever other poor benighted fools you chose to aid you wrought here, is evil. I should not have done it.
Geoffrey’s voice was harsh. You think my son is so stupid that you could snare him any other way? I searched for him fruitlessly for years without catching him—because I could not find the right bait. Now I have it. Don’t fret yourself, he’s here with her. Cain’s mother was a shapeshifter. She gave him the ability to use green magic, something I failed to recognize until it was too late because of his talent with human magic. The mixture proved volatile—too volatile for his sanity. At least I hope he is insane . . . that is easier to accept than flesh of my flesh being so given to evil.
Geoffrey paused as if putting aside an old grief. Aralorn’s face twisted into a snarl, an expression that sat oddly on the mouse’s face as she traded terror for rage at last. She put aside all thoughts of an ancient evil, satisfied that her enemy was Geoffrey ae’Magi. She and Wolf must have failed. This is Geoffrey ae’Magi. He twists and manipulates with a skill I might envy if he did not use it as he does.
Kisrah did not respond, and at last the phantom continued. Don’t be so impatient. I told you he would come. He might even be here already. I’ve seen him take the shape of animals before. Have you looked closely at Aralorn’s wolf?
With those words, Geoffrey’s form dissolved. As it left the room, Lord Kisrah drew in a deep breath that was more of a gasp and sat up, clutching his head and grimacing in pain. He got up slowly, like an old man, and stirred the coals in the fire before setting a log in the grate. It was a very long time before he went back to sleep, and Aralorn didn’t move until he did.
A very cautious mouse crept out of the room at last, shivering and wary.
Wolf, in human form and wearing his mask, opened the door and let Aralorn into her room before she had a chance to knock. Startled, she looked quickly around to make certain there was no one to see him before stepping through the door and pushing it closed behind her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked after a brief look at her face. “What frightened you?”
She stepped closer to him and pressed against his warm chest. She felt him stiffen momentarily, as he still did at unexpected touches, then he relaxed and pulled her more tightly to him. She took a deep breath, feeling her panic abate.
She stepped back to see his face.
“Thanks, I needed that.” She hesitated. “I saw . . . Wolf, it was your father. I was watching Kisrah sleep when your father materialized in the room.”
He didn’t appear surprised, just tugged her closer again and bent to rest his head on top of hers as she told him the whole of what she had seen.
“He has to be dead,” she whispered. “He has to be, but I swear to you this was him.”
“Are you certain it was he?”
An illusion? Aralorn examined her memory. Illusionists could not create an actual double any more than a shapeshifter could take on the appearance of a specific person. There were too many fine details to be missed—a mole behind the earlobe, the slant of a smile, the swing of a walk.
“Not unless it was created by an illusion master who knew your father very well,” she said finally. “Every nuance of speech or expression was Geoffrey’s.” She frowned. “Though he didn’t really speak. I would say that it was mindspeaking, but I’ve never been able to send or receive by mind. I understood everything he said—they said—quite clearly.”
“Dreamspeaking is different,” replied Wolf. “If Kisrah was asleep, probably it was a dreamspeaker—which was one of my father’s odder talents.”
“Dreamspeaking as in dreamwalking?” asked Aralorn. “It can be part of the same gift. Did my father have a scent?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, shocked at the inane . . . Wait, not such an inane question after all. “Allyn’s toadflax, I never thought of that. I don’t remember ...” A mouse’s sense of smell was not as good as a wolf’s, but it was better than a human’s.
“Father had a scent that he always wore: cloves and—”
“—cinnamon,” she broke in. “I remember. I would have noticed that. I don’t think he had any scent at all.”
“Dreamwalker then,” said Wolf. She couldn’t tell what he thought about it. “Though it’s a rare talent, my father was not the only dreamspeaker among the wizards. Whatever you saw was not a real person but a similitude. Any dreamwalker who knew my father well could produce it.”
“So it isn’t your father,” she said with a rush of relief.
“I didn’t say that.” Wolf sighed and tightened his hold. “Dreamwalking is one of the two or three things that wizards are supposed to be able to do for a while after they die.”
“There are a lot of dead wizards around?” Aralorn asked.
Wolf shrugged. “I’ve never seen any. There are stories, but no one really believes them.” He hesitated. “It’s just that if any wizard would come back from the dead, it would be my father.”
“So this is either your father or another wizard who knows a lot about your father.”
“If Kisrah were a little better at self-deception,” said Wolf, loosening his hold, “it could even have been him. I never heard that dreamwalking was one of his abilities, but most of the great mages have several.”
“Kisrah thought your father was a
good man,” she returned.
“My father’s magic was powerful enough to reach Sianim,” he said. “Certainly he’d have put stronger spells on any wizard close enough to smell black magic. On his own, Kisrah is pretty observant: He’d know if he was causing my father’s appearances in his dreams.”
“I was hoping for the Dreamer.” Aralorn stepped away and began undressing.
“You just think the Dreamer would make a better story,” he said.
She frowned at him. “What’s the use of going to all this work if you can’t brag about it when you’re through? If it is your father, we have to be quiet about it.” She took a step nearer to him, then said suspiciously, “If I didn’t know you better, I would say that you’re cheerful. You are never cheerful around the subject of your father.”
“My father isn’t a cheery topic,” he said. “But whether we are dealing with him, some other wizard, or a creature out of one of your stories is something that can wait. I think I have a solution to our more immediate problem. I’ve been doing some thinking while you were gone, and I’ve remembered a few things. If we can get Kisrah and Gerem’s cooperation, I think I can break the spell on your father.”
She stilled. “Are you sure?”
“My dear Lady, nothing’s certain in this life, but it should work.”
“What about the possibility of Geoffrey’s attacking you?”
“If Kisrah and Gerem are willing to cooperate, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
He sounded very certain, but so had Geoffrey.
“Kisrah’s not very happy with what’s been done to my father, or his own part in it,” she said. “But convincing him that Geoffrey is . . . was . . . is—Plague it!—that Geoffrey was-and-is not a good man won’t be easy.”
“Hmm,” Wolf said. “I think I might have an idea or two on that score.”
He was, she noticed, dividing their problem into two: save her father and deal with his. That he believed her father’s ensorcellment was solvable was beyond good. She could feel herself relax into belief in his ability. That he was ignoring his father was less good. She worried that it was less confidence in his own skills than it was indifference to danger to his life. It was time to let him know what she had done.