“The stables? What’s in the stables?”
He stopped tugging against her hold and bent down until his face was level with hers. “I killed Father,” he whispered.
“Stuff and nonsense, Gerem. Father is not dead.” She looked around for the nearest source of help. This wasn’t near anyone’s sleeping chambers—those were a floor above them. No one would hear her . . . But then she remembered that Irrenna had given Kisrah the Lyon’s library to sleep in.
“Kisrah!” she shouted, hoping her voice would penetrate the thick oak door.
“Let me go. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“No more do I,” she muttered.
Gerem pulled a knife with a slow and awkward movement. Once he had it out, he held it as if he didn’t know what to do with it now that it was in his hand.
Misled by that and by his earlier claim of clumsiness, Aralorn tried a simple grab to relieve him of the weapon. She should have realized that the Lyon wouldn’t let any of his sons go without training. As smoothly as he must have done it a hundred times in practice, he caught her hand in his free one and used leverage to twist her around until her back was against him, her arms caught firmly by his off hand, and the cool edge of his knife laid against her throat.
Without the knife, she’d have gotten out of it easily enough—a former thief of the Trader Clans had taught her a number of interesting tricks—but the knife made any movement on her part highly stupid. Half-grown though he was, he was still stronger and bigger than she was—and better trained than she’d thought. She didn’t want him to grow to adulthood knowing that he’d killed his sister, so she remained very still.
“What are you going to do in the stables, Gerem?” she asked as unaggressively as possible. Give him some time to break the hold the dreamwalker has woven, she thought. Keep him talking.
“Sleep.” His arms relaxed a shade but not enough.
“Why do you need to sleep in the stables?” She kept her voice in big-sister-to-little-brother tones, not frightened-victim-with-knife-at-throat. If you reminded someone you were at their mercy too often, they just might decide to kill you and get it over with.
He tightened his grip. “I killed Father. Don’t you understand?”
Abruptly, he twisted, thrusting her at someone who’d been approaching from behind. She knocked the man flat and heard Gerem running down the stairs.
She swore like any guttersnipe and leapt to her feet, noting only peripherally that it was Kisrah she’d landed on.
Though instincts would have sent her tearing off after Gerem, she took the time to change. The goose would be faster gliding down the stairs than the icelynx would be since the stone offered no grip to claws.
“What the—” croaked Kisrah as he sat up in time to witness the last part of the change.
“After him,” she said, and took flight.
By now, Gerem was already down the stairs. He didn’t bother with the more polite methods of getting to the stables but threw the bolts on the shutters of a window and jumped through.
He’s going to break a leg doing that, thought Aralorn. The window might be waist high inside the keep, but it was better than half a story higher on the outside. Closing her wings, she darted through the open window after him.
Hurry, said the wind’s unwelcome voice. Death is waiting.
Let it wait, then, she thought.
She’d overshot Gerem and was close to the stables before she could turn around. Goose wings were meant for great sweeping turns, not falcon-quick maneuvering. Especially a domestic goose that had to work far too hard to fly. She started to turn back when she saw the howlaa.
It waited in front of the stables in the moonlit courtyard, the wind carrying its scent away from the sensitive noses of the horses in the stables. She thought about how unexpectedly the last howlaa had come upon her and wondered if it could control the wind and keep its scent from prey.
The dead one’s mate, said the wind, as clearly as if someone were whispering into her ears. Dream-called and hungry for blood.
Closer, she could see differences between this one and the one she’d killed before. Its mane was longer and darker, with red as well as yellow tints. Its eyes, though, were the same, crystal so deep she could drown in its depths.
Spelled, she thought. It had magic to compel its victims to meet its eyes. It wasn’t just stupidity on her part that had let her be caught by the first howlaa.
Called by the howlaa, she let herself get too close. Only when it moved was she able to break the hold of its eyes. It rose to its hind legs with lethal swiftness and struck. Aralorn tucked her wings and dove to the ground, avoiding the crushing blow by a margin so slim as to be nonexistent.
The wind laughed alternately in thunderous then high tones that hurt her ears. Wind-touched, it said. Howlaa bait. How could you think to approach it unnoticed?
Gerem ran into the courtyard. He dropped his knife and looked at the howlaa. It returned his look, freezing him where he stood. Ignoring Aralorn, it took a step forward, then cried out in the chilling, whining tones she’d heard before.
Alone, so alone without the harmonies its mate provided. She wanted to find the one who brought them to this cursed place and rip his mind away, but the caller was too strong and could not be disobeyed. This child must die first.
Aralorn launched herself from the ground, changing in midflight to her own human form. When she dropped, she landed on the howlaa, much as she had its mate—and this time she had Ambris instead of her knives.
But the howlaa dropped as soon as Aralorn touched her, rolling agilely on the cold ground, making Aralorn scramble to get off it in time without coming within reach of the creature’s talons. She wasn’t wholly successful.
Blood poured down her arm as she backed away rapidly, and she’d lost Ambris; the sword lay on the ground behind the howlaa. It was easily within Gerem’s reach, but her brother hadn’t moved since he’d come to the courtyard. The howlaa stood between Aralorn and her brother—between Aralorn and the sword.
Well, she thought wryly, at least she had its attention. Without a weapon, she wasn’t going to hold its attention long—not unless it was hungry. But—there was help in the stables. She gave a long, shrill whistle as she backed up one slow step, then another.
She was grateful for every second she’d shaved off the time it took to change to icelynx form, for as soon as the howlaa realized what she was doing, it charged.
Aralorn’s vision was still trying to adjust to the difference between human and cat when the howlaa was upon her. She barely managed to avoid the howlaa’s swipe by running underneath it and out the other side. This put her on the right side of the howlaa to retrieve her sword if she wanted to take human form. She hesitated and decided not to risk changing again. It was just possible that the icelynx would have a better chance than a human bearing a sword. As soon as the thought occurred to her, she changed.
She shook her head and tried to ignore the lingering itches and tingles the shift had left her. Tension caused her to yowl irritably at her bulky foe—between its noise and hers, they were going to have the entire keep out here soon. Not that it would be a bad thing to have a few more people to help with the howlaa.
She and the wind demon paced back and forth, Aralorn keeping between the howlaa and its intended prey. That the howlaa didn’t just attack was a hopeful sign. She hadn’t been absolutely certain that howlaas were vulnerable to the poison of an icelynx bite, but the larger animal’s caution gave her hope. She was careful to avoid looking the howlaa in the eye, watching instead for the slight tensing of muscles that would presage a charge.
She had no illusions about her chances for survival. Thank the gods, she thought, that Wolf can break Ridane’s bond if I happen to get my stupid self killed.
Kisrah, who must have taken a safer route through a door, entered the courtyard wearing only a pair of light-colored sleeping pants. When he saw the howlaa, he stopped.
“Aralorn. Which o
ne are you?” he asked urgently.
The sound of his voice seemed to release Gerem from the howlaa’s hold, but instead of running, he took two steps forward.
Sensing Aralorn’s distraction, the howlaa chose that moment to close. It mewled as it ran, somehow a much more chilling sound than the roar of a bear or lion. Aralorn was forced to engage to keep it away from the two unarmed men.
She tried to leap on the howlaa’s back again, but her weakened shoulder betrayed her, and she stumbled at the last minute, rolling frantically under the beast. She thought later that the stumble had saved her life, for the great jaws just missed closing on her back.
Instead, the howlaa caught her with its paw instead, but it hadn’t had room to put much force behind the blow. It hurt, though, landing right on top of the bruises Falhart had left on her back that afternoon. The blow, relatively light as it was, sent her rolling farther under the howlaa.
While the howlaa scrambled to back away, where its size and power better offset her speed, Aralorn used her claws on the icy ground to gain her feet, then launched herself at the nearest vulnerable place she could find. Her fangs sank through the heavy coat that protected its ribs and into the howlaa’s side.
The howlaa shook itself wildly, trying to dislodge her, but it only succeeded in driving her teeth in deeper. Aralorn felt the throbbing of the glands beneath her eyeteeth as they pumped poison deep into the howlaa’s flesh. Unfortunately, it was too far from any major artery to kill swiftly.
The howlaa was almost as fast as the icelynx, and ten times its weight; it was only luck that had allowed her to last this long against it.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, the howlaa dropped to its side, crushing her beneath it. The weight of the howlaa kept her from breathing properly, and she grew dizzy with lack of air. A dull thud sounded in Aralorn’s ears, and the howlaa’s body heaved at the same time.
With a shriek of rage, the howlaa came to its feet, but it didn’t move as swiftly as it had before—neither did Aralorn, for that matter. The wind demon’s cry was answered with a stallion’s high-pitched scream as Sheen, called by Aralorn’s whistle, attacked the howlaa again, teeth bared and front feet flying. Relentless and fearless, the stallion drove the creature away from Aralorn.
On her feet again, Aralorn ran—or rather, hobbled—for her sword. She was glad that she’d been working with Halven, because she wasn’t altogether certain she could have shifted back to human form in the shape she was in without the extra potency that being better centered gave her. She’d done all the damage the lynx could manage; her right arm was too weak to maintain a four-footed attack. She hadn’t had time to take a close look at the damage the howlaa had done to her shoulder, and battle heat kept her from noticing the pain—but, considering the speed with which she had lost strength, she was afraid that it was worse than she had thought.
Exhaustion washed over her in waves as she completed her fourth shift. She noticed, almost absently, that Kisrah was struggling with Gerem and that there were other people in the stableyard now. She took Ambris in her good left hand and turned back to the fight.
A normal horse wouldn’t have stood a chance against such an opponent, but Sheen was war-trained and iron shod. His winter shoes were rough-bottomed like a file for better grip on ice and snow, and the damage they inflicted when propelled by a ton of battle-maddened stallion was not inconsiderable. He was canny, too, taking care to avoid the front end of the howlaa when he could.
Aralorn found the energy somewhere to run, keeping clear of Sheen’s line of attack. The horse sported a dark slash down his ribs, but in the darkness she couldn’t see how bad it was. Squealing, he spun and kicked with his hind legs, but missed because the howlaa collapsed abruptly. Both Aralorn and Sheen drew to a halt, watching the creature warily. Its ribs rose once, twice, then stopped.
The icelynx’s poison, thought Aralorn in relief, allowing her sword tip to drop.
“It’s all right, Sheen,” she crooned to the snorting stallion, knowing her voice would calm him faster than anything else. “It’s dead now.”
THIRTEEN
Wolf stood just inside the curtain of the bier room and wove a thin layer of darkness so that a casual observer would not see the light around the edges of the heavy fabric and realize that there was someone in the room with the Lyon. Green magic rose to his desire, if not his call, and the spell thickened with other magics to conceal his presence.
Wolf waited, but when the lingering magic dissipated and did not return, he took on human form, called his staff, and used it to light the room. He walked to the Lyon and ran his fingers lightly over the still face.
Aralorn had always laughed about how little she resembled the rest of the family, but Wolf could see the strong line of her jaw and the arrangement of her features in her father’s face. Take away the coloring and the size difference, and it was easy to tell that the Lyon was her sire. His skin was cool under Wolf’s touch.
“This is your last night of rest, my lord,” Wolf murmured aloud. “I hope your dreaming was pleasant.”
He took off his belt pouch and emptied the contents, mostly chalks, ink, and quills, on the bier next to the Lyon. It would take some time to set the spells that would undo the Lyon’s binding.
Aralorn walked around the howlaa’s body, murmuring a soft reassurance to her stallion. After a long moment, Sheen lost his battle stance and nuzzled her hard enough to knock her back several steps. She examined the cuts in his side and sighed with relief. They were shallow, and the bleeding was already slowing. He wouldn’t be carrying a saddle for several days, but she thought if the cuts were cleaned and doctored, that would be the worst of it.
Aralorn was torn between the dictates of a lifetime of training—tend to your horse first—and the knowledge that Gerem was still in danger. She compromised by turning Sheen into a small empty pen beside the stables and promising him better care as soon as she was done.
The wind had shifted direction, bringing the scent of the dead howlaa through the stables. Horses thumped and whinnied, bringing grooms running to stand gawking over the body of the howlaa.
Aralorn avoided them all and hurried to where Kisrah had Gerem pinned, picking up Ambris along the way and sheathing her.
“He’s been trying for his knife,” said Kisrah, as soon as she was within conversation range. “Seeing how anxious he was to go for the howlaa, I thought the knife might be an equally bad idea.”
“Can you hold him for a bit more?” she asked. “I’ll go for Nevyn.”
Kisrah looked relieved. “Good thought. Nevyn’s a dreamwalker. He will know how to help your brother. I’ll enlist one of the stableboys—who seem to be finally figuring out something is going on out here—and take him up to Nevyn’s rooms if you’ll go ahead of us and tell him what to expect.”
“Right,” said Aralorn, not bothering to address Kisrah’s assumption that Nevyn was the cure rather than the cause for Gerem’s condition. Kisrah had, by saving her brother, provided her satisfactory proof that he wasn’t involved any deeper than he had claimed. Gerem would be safe with Kisrah.
She left them there, pushing herself to run though her shoulder protested the pounding gait. She had to go the long way around on her own human feet; she couldn’t jump back through the window in human form, and she wasn’t up to any more shapeshifting for a while.
As she had hoped, Kisrah had come out the nearest side door—one that was usually kept bolted, so at least she didn’t have to run halfway around the keep. She heard a few people stirring, awakened by the commotion by the stable, but she didn’t see anyone as she came upon the door to her rooms.
She should stop and get Wolf for backup. She stopped before the door and put a hand on it. Wolf could handle Nevyn if Aralorn couldn’t persuade him with her words.
Unfortunately, she was under no illusion about what Wolf would do to anyone who tried to hurt her. If she gave him some time to cool down, to understand—if there was something to under
stand—then he would act as reason dictated. But in the heat of the initial discovery . . . it was safer for everyone if she went at this alone.
She took her hand off the door and continued on.
Nevyn and Freya had rooms a floor above the hall where she’d found Gerem. Aralorn didn’t bother to knock as she walked in.
The first thing she saw was Freya sleeping soundly on the bed, her peaceful features revealed by the flickering light of the fireplace.
The sound of the door opening hadn’t disturbed Nevyn either: He was waiting for her in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace from the bed. The firelight illuminated one side of his face clearly, while the other lay in shadows.
“I thought you might come,” he said softly. Then, seeing her glance at her sleeping sister, he said, “Don’t worry, she’s sleeping until morning.”
The sound of his voice sent a chill of unease coursing through her veins. Nevyn spoke Rethian with a thick Darranian accent she’d never heard him use.
“Let Gerem go, Nevyn,” she said.
“You aren’t beautiful,” he said, as if she had never spoken at all. “What magic do you work that holds a man to you like that? Ten years, and the thought of seeing you was more important than punishing him for killing Geoffrey. Geoffrey, who was my teacher, my creator—giving me life and understanding when Nevyn would have seen me dead.”
“Punishing Wolf?” she asked.
He nodded jerkily. Even in the dimly lit room, Aralorn could see the flush that swept up his cheeks as he abruptly leaned forward, every muscle in his body tightening. His voice, in stark contrast to his posture, was soft and slow. “How could you take up with him? We waited and waited for you to come home. Then Geoffrey died, and I found out you’d taken his killer as your lover.”
“How did you find out?” she asked.
Nevyn took a deep breath in through his nose. “Geoffrey told me when he told me that Cain killed him. Cain is evil, don’t you understand?”