Wolfsbane s-2 Page 11

  The spell finished, he threw it at the creature, careful that it did not touch Halven. To his relief, it fell as it should have, a glowing circle of light containing everything in the room between Halven and Wolf. He held his breath as the shadow touched the light and drew back from the binding, prowling restlessly within the circle’s confines.

  Wolf shrank the boundaries until the shadow was enclosed in a circle the size of a foot soldier’s shield. The creature cowered in the small area in the center of the spell, where it shivered, small and dark, like a slug exposed to open air.

  The green magic he had not used continued to fight him, struggling for the freedom to complete the pattern it had begun. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with it when he got it under control. Human mages were very careful to draw only as much power as they needed, since magic left unformed was dangerous. He had no idea what a similar situation with green magic would do.

  The magic fought against his dominance like a wild stallion bridled for the first time, and he found himself losing his grip on it. Reaching for a firmer hold, he found that he was grasping nothing; the green magic had faded, dissipating like fog in the sun.

  He would have felt more reassured if he thought it was gone rather than merely biding its time. Sweating beneath his mask, he turned his attention to his companions. As he did so, he realized he hadn’t struggled with the magic for as long as he thought: Halven and Aralorn had just closed in on his prisoner, apparently unaware of the battle he’d just barely won. Grateful for the mask that hid his features, he turned his attention to the shadow-creature.

  “Baneshade,” said Halven, looking at the creature. “Interesting.”

  “What’s a baneshade?” asked Aralorn.

  Wolf stepped to the edge of the binding and examined the thing himself, saying, “I hadn’t thought of that. They used to be quite common, I understand. The wizards before the Wizard Wars used them. They were nasty little creatures who lived in dark places, usually where magic had been performed—deserted temples and the like. On their own, they’re said to be harmless enough, but they can work like a sigil—keeping a human spell going for an indefinite length of time.” He paused. “Or they can store power. They were supposed to have the ability to alter some spells a little, too. I had assumed they were long gone.” He was pleased that his voice came out as controlled as it usually was.

  “It didn’t act like something that was harmless,” said Aralorn.

  “I saw another one once,” commented Halven. “When I was younger, I sometimes wandered from place to place. There was a deserted building—not much larger than a hut, really. I was told it was haunted by the ghost of one of the great wizards from the time of the Wizard Wars. The building didn’t feel that old to me, but it did have a baneshade. It took me a while to find a name for the thing.” He turned his attention to Wolf. “Why didn’t you try capturing it that way before?”

  “I didn’t even think of it.” It was black magic, and he tried not to use it. He didn’t have to use blood to call enough power to build the spell, but most other human mages would have.

  Halven raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. Instead, he turned to the bier. “Now that that’s taken care of, I suppose I should look at this spell.”

  He laid his hand on the Lyon’s head and began humming in a rich baritone. After a moment he pulled back and looked at Wolf. “I think it’s human magic. But there is something else as well. Perhaps you ought to look.”

  Wolf looked at the shadow his magic held. “Hold a moment. I need to fix the spell so I can work other magic.”

  He drew a sign on the stone floor with his finger, then touched the glowing circlet. The symbol he’d drawn flared orange before disappearing. “That should hold it.”

  He released the spell, knowing that the rune would maintain the spell for the time he needed. Stepping past it, he approached the bier. Like Halven, Wolf laid his palm on the Lyon’s forehead. With his free hand, he gestured in a controlled motion as he closed his eyes.

  “Black magic,” he said finally, pulling away. “I still can’t tell if it is human or not, but I’ll take your assessment. I don’t recognize the patterning, but it’s been muddled enough it could be anyone—maybe the baneshade’s work. It almost has the feel of a collective effort, but it is hard to tell. There is a second spell as well, but it doesn’t seem to have been activated. Hopefully, Lord Kisrah can unravel it.”

  Halven nodded in satisfaction. “I thought it felt as if there was more than one hand involved.”

  “Can you break the spell that holds him?” asked Aralorn.

  “Not this one,” said Halven.

  Wolf shook his head. “Lady, I could try. I would rather wait until I find out just what the spell is, though. I’ve never seen its like. It will be far less dangerous to your father if I know what I’m working with.”

  Halven tapped his finger idly on the stone bier. “Why didn’t anyone else notice he wasn’t dead? Surely someone should have noticed his body didn’t behave properly?”

  “He’s not breathing, has no pulse, and is as cold as stone,” answered Aralorn. “What was there to notice?”

  Halven’s brows rose. “His body didn’t stiffen as a corpse would.”

  “Well,” said Aralorn, looking for an explanation, “Kurmun rode here with Father from the croft—that would not have been long enough for a corpse to rigor. It is traditional to leave a body in the cellar for a full day before dressing it out—to give the spirit time to depart. There was no reason for anyone to notice.”

  “A useful tradition,” observed Wolf. “It is so much easier to work with a pliable corpse.”

  Halven smiled grimly. “So if you had not come, he would have been buried?”

  Aralorn nodded, but Wolf said, “There’s no way to tell, is there? I think perhaps someone would have conveniently discovered it at the last moment—and would have seen to it that word was sent to Aralorn, as the family’s own green mage. Perhaps it would have been suggested that shapeshifter magic had done this.”

  “You think this was set to draw me here?” asked Aralorn.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But it is significant that the Lyon is held by black magic when his daughter is”—he paused—“has a friend who has the reputation of being the last black mage—the rest being controlled by the ae’Magi’s power over them. I think that it is further interesting that the baneshade was inactive until you walked in—and it has been after you ever since.”

  “What would it want with me?” asked Aralorn.

  “I believe the spell that it attempted to place on you when we first discovered it is the same one that binds your father. Perhaps the person who engineered all of this decided he wanted more certain bait.”

  “Bait for you.” She considered it.

  “Someone would have to want you very badly to go to this much trouble,” commented Halven.

  “Yes,” admitted Wolf. “Quite a few people do.”

  Despite the seriousness of the subject, Aralorn grinned. “Every woman wants to find herself a man who is desired by so many others.”

  “Why were they so careful to make certain the Lyon lives?” asked Halven, ignoring Aralorn. “It would have been just as easy to kill him. Aralorn would have come to pay her last respects.”

  “Perhaps the one who set the spell likes him,” replied Wolf, and Aralorn knew he was thinking of Nevyn. “Sometimes, Aralorn, the most obvious answer—”

  His speech stopped as he felt the ripple of his hold spell dissolving. He shifted his gaze to see what had happened just in time to observe the last of the daylight fade and the shadow flow across the stone floor. Wolf didn’t have a chance to gather magic, or even call out a warning—the baneshade was moving too fast . . .

  A surge of green magic, his own magic, flared suddenly. There was so much of it that the whole room glowed with the unearthly midnight blue light that flowed down his staff like wax from a candle.

  The room looked sinister
and nightmarish, full of darkness and deep shadows. At Aralorn’s feet, a bare handspan from her heel, the baneshade hissed, glowing ice blue—lighter by far than anything in the room—held in place by Wolf’s magic.

  Aralorn, quick acting and quicker witted, jumped away from it, stopping only when she touched the wall. Wolf began belatedly seeking dominion of the magic before it could do anything more. Although its initial action was beneficial, Wolf didn’t want to chance harming Aralorn or Halven.

  As he reached for it, he discovered it was already weaving itself into a pattern of destruction that allowed him no room to gain control. The light began to concentrate around the baneshade, flowing from the corners of the room until the cool white illumination from the staff dominated once more.

  Glowing a deep indigo, his magic appeared viscous as it surrounded the creature, consolidating in a thick mass near the floor. There was a moment of stasis, then a fog began to rise from the blue-black base, a fog that had the odd effect of illumination and concealment at the same time.

  By the curious radiance of the fog, the baneshade appeared to have a solid form, but it didn’t last long enough to be certain. Wolf caught a glimpse of fine downy fur before the outer surface began to bubble and dissolve with a terrible stench that reminded him of something long dead at the first touch of the fog. Flesh and bones were revealed in turn, each dissolving with a speed that testified to the power of the magic that consumed it. In the end, there was nothing left but the vaporous mist of darkness at Wolf’s feet and a malodorous scent that permeated the room.

  In that moment, when the destruction was complete, Wolf tried again to dominate his magic. Cold sweat ran down his back, and for a moment, all he could see were flames melting stone, destructive magic only he could call tearing apart everything in its path. He blinked and set the memory aside with the conviction that someone was about to die. His magic was good at killing. He needed coolness that fear would interfere with if he was going to keep everyone safe, keep Aralorn safe.

  Frantically, he fought for control, barely aware of the pain when he fell to his knees. He had to stop it before it hurt Aralorn; he felt certain that if it touched—

  Aralorn’s firm hands locked on his shoulder as the cloud whipped violently out of his control, sweeping around the room. Aralorn dodged, but it touched her anyway, ruffling her hair.

  Wolf cried out hoarsely, but the magic left her unharmed and came for him.

  Yes, he thought, let it be me.

  The swirling mist slid aside as it touched a barrier spell that Wolf had not called, and it turned the destructive force without ever quite meeting it. Again, Wolf grappled with it, fighting to bring it under control before it had another chance at Aralorn.

  Words drifted by his ears, Halven’s words. He ignored them.

  “No, plague you, listen to me. Wolf.” Aralorn was less easily disregarded. “My uncle says let it go. Don’t hold it. Release it. It’s done what you asked; if you release it, it will go.”

  Fear gnawed at his control, giving the magic more room to act, and the mist concentrated on the barrier the shapeshifter had set.

  “I can’t!” He gritted out the words. The damaged vocal cords made speech more difficult than usual. “Aralorn.”

  “It won’t hurt her.” Halven’s voice was low and soft, as if he were soothing a wild beast. “Let it go.”

  At last, because he had no better plan, Wolf did as the shapeshifter suggested. For a long moment, he thought it had done no good. The magic continued to rage, pushing hard at a warding Halven had thrown up around them. Then it faded, until only a faint trace lingered in the air, evidence that magic had been worked there.

  “Fluctuates,” muttered Halven in a voice of great disgust. “As the gods gave us life, your control fluctuates, she said.”

  Wolf hung his head in exhaustion, sitting on the ground because he didn’t have the energy to stand. With a gesture, he dissolved the mask, letting the cool air touch his scarred face.

  Aralorn knelt behind him, her hands still on his shoulders. “It was attacking you, Wolf. What happened?”

  * * *

  He didn’t reply to her question. Looking at him, she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. Eyes closed, he was breathing in great gulps of air like a racehorse after the meet of its life. Without the mask, his face was pale and covered in sweat.

  Halven examined the massive burn scars that covered Wolf’s ruined face. Her uncle’s eyes widened a bit as he took in the extent of the damage. He shared a thoughtful look with Aralorn.

  Her uncle waited until a little color had returned to Wolf’s face and his breathing had settled before he spoke. “Has anyone ever told you it’s unhealthy to work green magic when you have a death wish?”

  Aralorn took in a breath so deep it hurt. Though Wolf’s self-destructive tendencies were nothing new to her, she’d thought he was getting better, thought she’d been helping him to heal.

  “If I had been a tad less powerful,” Halven continued, “it would have killed you. If you don’t ask anything of the magic you gather, it strives to do what your inmost self desires—regardless of your awareness of those desires. I would have thought that even a human-trained mage would know better than that.”

  “I didn’t gather it.” Wolf’s voice was hoarser than usual, but he opened his eyes and managed a respectable glare.

  “I have to disagree,” replied Halven, not visibly intimidated, “though you certainly shouldn’t have been able to. Usually, green magic only responds to the call of a mage who is in tune with the world around him—and from the demonstration we’ve just had, I would say that you are not even in tune with yourself.”

  Wolf reached up and gripped Aralorn’s hand hard with his own. “I almost killed you—again,” he said without taking his eyes from Halven. “The baneshade broke through the demon-imprisoning ring. I saw it come after you, and there was no time to do anything.”

  “In your moment of need, you were served,” said Halven, sounding as if he were quoting something.

  Aralorn glanced at her uncle and nodded. “I’ve heard of green magic doing that—but only in stories.”

  “That’s because only an uneducated human mage wouldn’t know how to control his magic.”

  Wolf came to his feet, swaying. Aralorn was hampered by his tight grip on her hand, but Halven grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

  “Easy there,” he said. “Give yourself a minute.”

  Wolf stepped away from the unaccustomed touch and looked at Aralorn. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all.” If she’d broken every bone she had, she would have said the same. But, as it happened, the thick flow of Wolf’s magic had been a caress rather than a strike.

  “You weren’t attacking her,” said Halven impatiently. “The only one who had anything to worry about in this room was you.”

  Wolf looked away from them both. He reached up to touch his mask, something he did when he was uncomfortable. But his mask wasn’t there, and when his fingers touched the scars, he flinched. Aralorn wasn’t the only one who saw it.

  “When you want to be rid of that reminder,” said Halven, “come to me, and I’ll teach you how to heal yourself. You’ve the power, and I can teach you the skill.” He looked at the floor, where the baneshade had been. “It was best to destroy the baneshade anyway. It seemed to be focused on Aralorn, and the things can be dangerous in a place as old as this.”

  “Plague it,” said Aralorn softly, as a sudden thought occurred to her. “Kisrah is coming here. We might have a problem.”

  “What is it?” Wolf tightened like a predator scenting prey; even his body seemed to lose the fatigue that had made his moves less fluid than usual.

  “The night your father died, when I came back after you, Lord Kisrah was there.”

  “He would know you?” asked Wolf intently. “As the daughter of the Lyon?”

  “Although I have absented myself as much as possible from human affairs,” bro
ke in Halven mildly, “I do know that this has become a dangerous conversation. I wish to know nothing about Geoffrey ae’Magi’s death.” He hesitated. “If you survive all of this, Wolf . . . come to me, and we will talk about your recalcitrant magic. Good luck to you both.” He heaved up the bar on the door to the outside and left by that way.

  Aralorn shut the door behind him and settled the bar back in place. “Kisrah saw me quite clearly, as a matter of fact—I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone at the time, so I was wearing my own face. I don’t think he connected me with my father—we would have heard something. Kisrah was caught well and good by the last ae’Magi’s spells. If he knew, he’d have come after me before this. But he can hardly miss me when he comes here.”

  “I can handle Kisrah if he becomes a problem,” Wolf said mildly enough to frighten Aralorn.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I don’t think that we would survive killing a second ae’Magi.”

  “We could do it every year on the anniversary of my father’s death,” suggested Wolf. “Though technically Kisrah would be our first, as my father was killed by the Uriah after you stole his magic.”

  He was joking, she thought, though sometimes it was difficult to tell. He liked it that way.

  “I saved Kisrah’s life,” she said, returning to the matter at hand. “The lady he was sleeping with had a tendency to eat her lovers. Sadly, he was unconscious, so he won’t know he owes me.” She ran her fingers over her father’s hand. It was cool to the touch. She continued thoughtfully. “You know, he obviously didn’t recognize me at the time, but he has the right contacts. If he wanted to find out badly enough who I was, he could. As ae’Magi, he would have access to all the knowledge of black magic he wished.”

  “Especially with most of my father’s library at his disposal,” agreed Wolf as he took a step back and leaned against the wall. Not to relax, noticed Aralorn worriedly, but to keep himself upright. His consonants softened with fatigue, leaving his voice difficult to understand. “It is true that he was very close to my father, certainly close enough to thirst for revenge. But I know Kisrah; he would never touch the black arts.”