Wolfsbane s-2 Read online

  The priestess turned her head to the side, considering.

  “The creature that sleeps in the glass desert,” Aralorn clarified further.

  “Ah,” said the priestess. “Yes . . . I had forgotten that name ...”

  “Has it awakened?”

  The priestess hesitated. “I would not know of it, unless it killed—and that was not its way. It incited others to do its killing.”

  Falhart spoke for the first time. “Do you know anything about the farm that was burned to the ground?”

  “Yes. Death visited there and was caught to pay the price of the Lyon’s sleep.”

  “You mean,” said Gerem, with a tension that was strong enough to attract Aralorn’s interest, “something was killed there. That death was used in the magic that ensorcelled my father.”

  The priestess nodded. “As I said.”

  “Is Geoffrey ae’Magi dead, or does his spirit attend the living?” asked Aralorn.

  “He is dead,” said Tilda. “But in the way of such men, much of him lives on in the hearts of those who loved him.”

  She swayed alarmingly. Disregarding his wariness for the goddess in concern for the woman, Correy jumped up the short flight of stairs and wrapped an arm around her waist.

  “Here, now,” he said, helping her sit on the floor.

  “Did you get the answers you needed?” she asked. “She left without warning me. Usually, I can tell when She’s ready to leave, and I can give notice of the last question. Otherwise, you are left with the most important thing unanswered.”

  “It was fine,” said Aralorn thoughtfully. She would rather have had a simple yes or no to her last question, but she hadn’t really expected as much help as they’d gotten. Usually priests and priestesses were much less forthcoming and a lot more obscure when they did tell you something.

  “Aralorn”—Tilda got to her feet and shook out her robes briskly, obviously putting off whatever weakness the goddess’s visit had left her with—“I wonder if you would mind speaking with me in private for a bit.”

  Since Aralorn had been debating how to phrase the same request, she nodded immediately. “Of course.” Last night she’d thought of another thing that Ridane could help her with.

  Tilda walked down the stairs and, with a shooing motion, said, “Go along now and wait for us in the cottage. There are some fresh scones on the table, help yourselves.”

  Aralorn’s brothers left without a protest. As he turned to close the door behind them, Gerem shot a calculating look at Aralorn. When she smiled and waved, he frowned and pulled the door shut with a bang that reverberated in the large, mostly empty room.

  “He doesn’t trust me,” commented Aralorn, shaking her head.

  “With Nevyn around, you’re lucky anyone does,” said Tilda in reply.

  “For someone who lives several hours from the hold, you know an awful lot about my family.” Aralorn rubbed the itchy place behind Wolf’s ears.

  The death goddess’s priestess grinned companionably and answered Aralorn’s observation. “My news travels fast—Correy’s new horse has a rare turn of speed.”

  Aralorn returned her smile. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

  “Hmm.” Tilda looked down and tapped her foot. “The goddess told me to ask you if you would change shape for me.”

  Of all the things she could have asked, that was something Aralorn had not expected.

  “Why?”

  “You are a shapeshifter,” Tilda said. “A few weeks ago, I saw an animal that had no business being in the woods. A shapeshifter was the only explanation I could come up with, though, other than the fact that there hasn’t been a report of a howlaa around here for generations, the animal didn’t seem unnatural. I asked Ridane if I’d be able to tell the difference between a shapeshifter and a natural animal; She told me to ask you.” The priestess smiled. “Since you hadn’t been here in a long time, I did wonder. When you came here today, She reminded me again to ask you.”

  “There was a howlaa,” said Aralorn. “It was killed yesterday, not far from the keep. But I don’t see any reason to refuse to change in front of you: a favor for a favor.”

  “What is it you need of me?” asked Tilda warily.

  Aralorn threaded her fingers through the hair on Wolf’s neck and cleared her throat. “I have this friend who needs to get married.”

  Tilda’s jaw dropped for a moment. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

  Not surprising, thought Aralorn. There hadn’t been a priestess of Ridane here for generations, and even when there had been, few people chose to be married in Her temple. Marriage bonds set by the goddess of death had odd consequences: Two people so bound could not live if one died.

  Aralorn was counting on three things: that no one would see the marriage lines written in Tilda’s recording book and use them to trace Cain ae’Magison to Aralorn and her wolf; that Wolf and his unbalanced education wouldn’t know about the quirk of Ridane’s marriages; and that, afterward, when she told him, he’d want her life more than his own death.

  “You can perform a marriage ceremony?” Aralorn asked.

  “Yes,” Tilda said slowly. “I know the rites.”

  Aralorn inclined her head formally. “Thank you.”

  She turned to Wolf, who had been staring at her incredulously since she’d begun speaking.

  “Well?” she said.

  He glanced at Tilda for a moment, then swung his yellow gaze back to Aralorn.

  Evidently deciding that Aralorn had already spoiled any chance to maintain his secrecy, he asked, “Why?”

  Because I don’t want to lose you, she thought. That sounded right to her, so she said, “Because I don’t want to lose you, not ever. I love you.”

  Her declaration seemed to mean something to him though he’d heard it before. He stood so still that she could barely see him breathe.

  “It is too dangerous,” he said finally. “Someone will see the records.”

  His voice was so sterile she could read nothing from it. A good sign, she thought. If he’d known what the marriage would mean, he’d have refused her outright. “Too dangerous” was no refusal, and he knew her too well to think that it was.

  “Who would ask a temple of the death goddess for a record of marriage lines?” asked Aralorn reasonably. “And an avatar of a goddess surely won’t be caught up in the residue of your father’s spells.” She turned to Tilda, who was watching them with some fascination. “Would you agree to keep this marriage secret?”

  Slowly, she nodded. “Barring that it violates any request of Ridane, yes.”

  “I know you, Aralorn,” Wolf said in a low growl. “You do not fight in the regular forces because you don’t like the ties that bind such folk to each other. You work alone, and prefer it. You have many people who like you and some people you like, but no one who is truly a friend. You protect yourself with a shield of friendliness and humor.”

  “I have friends,” she said, taken aback by his assessment; it had come from nowhere—and she thought he was wrong. She wasn’t the loner; he was.

  “No,” Wolf said. “Whom did you tell when you came here?”

  “I left a note for the Mouse.”

  “Work,” he said. “You believed your father had died, and you told no one. What did the note to Ren say? That you’d been called home on family business? Did you tell him the Lyon was dead or leave it for his other spies?”

  He was right. How odd, she thought, to see yourself through someone else’s view and discover a stranger.

  “You fight to have no bonds to anyone,” he continued, an odd hesitation in his rough voice. “You don’t even come to visit your family because you fear the pain of those ties. But you would tie yourself to me anyway. Because you love me.”

  She felt stripped naked and bewildered. “Yes,” she said, when he seemed to be waiting for some response.

  “If you wish to marry me,” he said, “I am most honored.”

  Til
da cleared her throat awkwardly. “Uhm. I’m not actually certain that I can marry someone to a wolf.”

  Aralorn gathered her tattered defenses together and managed a grin. “I agree. Wolf?”

  Wolf could no more have resisted putting on a show for the priestess than a child could resist a sweet.

  Black mist swirled up to engulf him until he was merely a darker shadow in the blackness. Gradually, the mist rose to the height of a man before falling away to reveal Wolf’s human shape, complete with his usual silver mask.

  Aralorn turned to Tilda, who had recovered from her initial surprise, and indicated Wolf. “May I introduce you to Cain, son of Geoffrey ae’Magi. But I call him Wolf, for obvious reasons.”

  “Cain the Black,” whispered Tilda, horrified. She drew a sign in the air that glowed silver and green.

  Wolf shook his head in disgust. “You can hardly think, whatever tales you have heard, that I would attack a priestess in her own temple. Not the brightest of moves.”

  “Don’t mind him,” offered Aralorn. “He always responds to other people’s fear this way—not that the fear is always unwarranted, mind you, but, generally speaking, he’s harmless enough.”

  “You want me to wed you to Cain the Black?” asked Tilda, sounding like she’d had one too many shocks.

  “Look,” said Aralorn, stifling her impatience. “I’m not asking you to marry him. Do this for me . . . ask the goddess what She thinks of Wolf . . . Cain. Then decide what you would do.”

  Tilda spared Wolf another wary glance. “I’ll do that. Wait a moment.”

  She sat on the middle stair and bowed her head—without removing the sign she’d drawn. It hung in the air, powered by human magic rather than anything of the goddess’s. Tilda was mageborn. Aralorn wondered if she should add the priestess’s name to the list of mages Kisrah had requested.

  “You’ve taken quite a risk,” murmured Wolf in a voice that went no farther than Aralorn’s ears. “What if the goddess decides I am so tainted by my early deeds that I should die to pay for them?”

  Aralorn shook her head, not bothering to lower her voice. “I know my stories. The goddess has always had a weakness for rogues and reprobates—just like me.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Tilda quietly, visibly calmer. Her sign faded quickly, without a motion on Tilda’s part. “She likes you—very much. If you would like to stand before me, the goddess of death will bind you tighter than the threads of life.”

  “Take off the mask, please,” Aralorn asked him.

  He slanted a glance at the priestess and flicked his fingers toward his face. The mask disappeared and left his face bare of scars. Aralorn touched his cheek.

  The priestess stood on the middle step, and Wolf took Aralorn’s hand formally on his forearm. They faced Tilda together: Aralorn in her riding leathers, doubtless, she thought, smelling of horses; Wolf in his customary sartorial splendor, not a hair out of place.

  “Who stands before me?” asked Tilda formally.

  “Wolf of Sianim, who once was Cain ae’Magison.”

  “Aralorn of Sianim, once of Lambshold.”

  “To what purpose would you come?”

  “To wed.” They answered together.

  “For all things to come, either good or evil? Desiring no other mate?”

  “Yes,” said Wolf.

  “Yes,” agreed Aralorn.

  Tilda took out a small copper knife and pricked her thumb so that a drop of blood formed. She pressed it to the hollow of Aralorn’s throat, then to Wolf’s.

  “Life to life entwined as the goddess wills, so be it. Kiss now, and by this shall the deed be sealed.”

  Wolf bent and touched his lips to Aralorn’s.

  “Done!” The priestess’s word rang with a power that had nothing to do with magic.

  “It shall be recorded,” said Tilda, “that Wolf of Sianim married Aralorn of Sianim on this date before Tilda, priestess of Ridane.”

  “Thank you.” Wolf bowed his head.

  From her perch on the stairs, Tilda leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. “We wish you nothing but the best.”

  Wolf drew back, startled at the gesture. He started to say something, but shook his head instead. Without a word or an excess bit of magic, he shifted to his lupine form.

  Aralorn looked at the priestess with full approval. “Now, do you still want me to shift for you?”

  Tilda shook her head with a sigh. “It’s not necessary. I had no idea that he was anything other than a wolf.”

  Aralorn laughed. “Neither did my uncle the shapeshifter—and we can usually tell our kind. Hold a moment.” She knew her change wasn’t as graceful or impressive as Wolf’s, but it was swift. She chose the icelynx because she’d been working on it and because someday she might have to spend some time at the temple: She didn’t want Tilda to be looking too hard at strange mice.

  She arched her back to rid herself of the final tingles of the change. The shadows held fewer secrets in this form, but there were fewer colors as well. Staring at the priestess’s face, Aralorn could see a hint of satisfaction in Tilda’s eyes.

  No, Aralorn thought, this should be a fair exchange of favors. She lay down on the floor and began tentatively to hide herself within the icelynx’s instincts. She was better with the mouse—and it was less dangerous that way, but she trusted that Wolf would stop her if she lost control of her creation. When she had done what she could to disguise herself, she waited for ten heartbeats, then allowed herself to reemerge.

  Hiding so deeply always left her with a headache to remind her why she seldom went to such extremes. She stood up, shook herself briskly, then shifted back to human form.

  “Well,” asked Aralorn, rubbing her arms briskly, “could you tell I was not the real thing?”

  Tilda took a deep breath and loosened her shoulders with a rolling motion. “When you first changed, yes, but for a moment while you lay still, no.”

  “I think then you should be all right. Most of the shapeshifters don’t care to get that deep into their creations,” said Aralorn. “There’s always the chance that the shaper might get lost in his shape.”

  “Thank you,” said Tilda. “I found that to be most . . . enlightening.”

  Me, too, thought Aralorn, who had learned that a cleric mage was going to be harder to get her mouse shape past than human mages were—but not impossible.

  * * *

  Correy edged his horse even with Sheen, but waited until Aralorn made eye contact before speaking. “We only have two weeks to break this spell.”

  Aralorn nodded. “I think it’s time to really talk with the ae’Magi. I may know some things he doesn’t. Perhaps together we might think of something.”

  “Why did you ask the question about the Dreamer?” queried Gerem, pushing forward until he was on Falhart’s off side. “It is just a story.”

  Though her other brothers rode coursers, bred for speed and ease of gait, Gerem’s horse, like Sheen, was bred for war. Younger than Sheen, with a rich sorrel coat, there was something in the horse’s carriage that reminded Aralorn strongly of her own stallion. His nostrils were flared, and his crest bowed, though Gerem rode with a light hand—Sheen did the same when she was upset.

  There was something about the deliberately casual tone combined with his horse’s agitation that planted an odd thought in her head. She sat back, and Sheen halted abruptly, forcing the men to stop also for politeness’s sake. Gerem appeared surprised at her reaction to his question, but she didn’t allow that to speed her tongue. Thirteen, she thought, Gerem is thirteen.

  “How,” she said finally, “have you been sleeping at night lately? Have you been having bad dreams?”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. “And if I have?”

  “Are they dreams of our father?” she speculated softly. “Perhaps you dreamed of his death before he actually fell?”

  Gerem paled.

  “Aralorn,” said Falhart sharply, “pick on someone up to your fi
ghting weight. Anyone can have seemings.”

  “Not seemings,” said Aralorn firmly, not removing her eyes from Gerem’s face. “They felt like reality, didn’t they?”

  Without warning, Gerem slipped his feet out of his stirrups and dropped to the ground. He made it into the bushes before they all heard the sounds of his being violently ill.

  Guilt caused Aralorn more than a twinge of discomfort as she dismounted as well.

  Gerem reappeared looking, if anything, paler than before. “I thought it was a dream,” he said hollowly. “It had to have been—I don’t know anything about magic or how it works. But I dreamed of lighting a fire and making a great magic. It burned until I thought the flesh was coming off my hands. I thought it was a dream, but when I awoke, the farm had been torched, and there were ashes on my boots. I . . . think”—he stopped and swallowed heavily, then said it all in a rush—“I think I must have put the spell on Father.”

  “Nonsense,” said Falhart bracingly.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Correy.

  “I think you might be right,” murmured Aralorn thoughtfully if unkindly. Then she continued quickly. “No, now don’t look at me like that. It certainly wasn’t his fault if he did. You asked me why I inquired about the Dreamer. This is the kind of thing it was supposed to be able to do. It seduced its victims into doing what it wanted, either by promising them something they wanted or by making them think they were doing something else.” She looked at their solemn faces. “It is said that the Tear of Hornsmar had a dream one night. A serpent attacked him in his bed. When he awoke, he turned to tell his mistress, Jandrethan, of his nightmare—which was still vivid in his mind. He found that she had been beheaded by his own sword, which he still clutched in his right hand.”

  “But the Dreamer is just a story,” said Gerem. “Like—like—dragons.”

  “Ah,” said Aralorn, swinging lightly back into the saddle. “But so are shapeshifters, my lad. And I am living proof that sometimes the stories have facts behind them.” She crossed her arms over the saddlebow and shook her head at him, but when she spoke, her voice was gentle. “Don’t take it to heart so, Gerem. Like enough there was nothing you could have done about it anyway.”