Wolfsbane s-2 Page 2

  The figure of the ae’Magi melted away, as did the corridor, fading into an ancient darkness that began to reach for her. She screamed and . . .

  * * *

  Awake, Aralorn listened to the muffled sounds of the inn. Hearing no urgent footsteps, she decided that she must not have screamed out loud. This was not the kind of place where such a sound would have been dismissed. She sat up to shake off the effects of the nightmare, but the terror of the eerie, hungry emptiness lingered. She might as well get up.

  She’d begun having nightmares when Wolf disappeared a few weeks ago. Nightmares weren’t an unexpected part of being a mercenary, but these had been relentless. Dreams of being trapped in the ae’Magi’s dungeon, unable to escape the pain or the voice that asked over and over again, “Where is Cain? Where is my son?” But this dream had been different . . . it had been more than a dream.

  She pulled on her clothes. Her acceptance of what she had seen had been born of the peculiar acceptance that was the gift of a dreamer. Awake now, she wondered.

  It had felt like truth. If the ae’Magi were still alive, she would have cheerfully attributed it to an attack by him—a little nasty designed to make her doubt Wolf and make his life a little more miserable. An attack that had failed only because she had a little magic of her own to call upon.

  But the ae’Magi was dead, and she could think of no one else who would know the intimate details of Wolf’s childhood—things that even she had not known for certain.

  It was a dream, she decided as she headed out to the stables. Only a dream.

  TWO

  The path to Lambshold was all but obscured by the snow, but Aralorn could have followed it blindfolded even though she hadn’t been here in ten years.

  As Sheen crested the final rise, Aralorn sat back in the saddle. Responsively, the stallion tucked his convex nose and slid to a halt. The roan gelding threw up his head indignantly as his lead line pulled him to an equally abrupt stop.

  From the top of the keep, the yellow banner emblazoned with her father’s red lion, which signaled the presence of the lord at the keep, flew at half mast, with a smaller, red flag above.

  Aralorn swallowed and patted Sheen’s thick gray neck. “You’re getting old, love. Maybe I should leave you here for breeding and see if I can talk someone out of a replacement.”

  Sheen’s ear swiveled back to listen to her, and she smiled absently.

  “There’s the tree I found you tied to down there, near the wall.”

  She’d thought she was so clever, sneaking out in the dead of night when no one would stop her. She’d just made it safely over the wall—no mean feat—and there was Sheen, her father’s pride and joy, tied to a tree. She still had the note she’d found in the saddlebags with travel rations and some coins. In her father’s narrow handwriting the short note had informed her that a decent mount was sometimes useful, and that if she didn’t find what she was looking for, she would always be welcome in her father’s home.

  The dark evergreen trees blurred in her sight as Aralorn thought about the last night she’d lived at Lambshold. She swallowed, the grief she’d suppressed through the journey home making itself felt.

  “Father.” She whispered her plea to the quiet woods, but no one answered.

  At last, she urged Sheen forward again, and they walked the perimeter of the wall until they reached the gate.

  “Hullo the gate,” she called briskly.

  “Who?” called a half-familiar voice from the top.

  Aralorn squinted, but the man stood with his back to the sun, throwing his face into shadow.

  “Aralorn, daughter to Henrick, the Lyon of Lambshold,” she answered.

  He gestured, and the gates groaned and protested as they opened, and the iron portcullis was raised. Sheen snorted and started forward without urging, the roan following behind. She glanced around the courtyard, noting the differences a decade had made. The “new” storage sheds were weathered and had multiplied in her absence. Several old buildings were no longer standing. She remembered Lambshold bustling with busy people, but the courtyard was mostly empty of activity.

  “May I take your horses, Lady?”

  The stableman, wise to the ways of warhorses, had approached cautiously.

  Aralorn swung off and removed her saddlebags, throwing them over one shoulder before she turned over the reins for both horses to the groom. “The roan’s a bit skittish.”

  “Thanks, Lady.”

  Not by word or expression did the stableman seem taken aback at a “Lady” dressed in ragged clothes chosen more for their warmth than their looks. By then, both the clothes and Aralorn had acquired a distinct aroma from the journey.

  Knowing the animals would be well cared for, she started toward the keep.

  “Hold a moment, Aralorn.”

  It was the man from the wall. She turned and got a clear look at his face.

  The years had filled out his height and breadth until he was even bigger than their father. His voice had deepened and hoarsened like a man who commanded others in battle, changed just enough that she hadn’t recognized it immediately. Falhart was several years older than she was, the Lyon’s only other illegitimate offspring. It was he who had begun her weapons training—because, as he’d told her at the time, his little sister was a good practice target.

  “Falhart,” she said, her vision blurring as she took a quick step forward.

  Falhart grunted and folded his arms across his chest.

  Hurt, Aralorn stopped and adopted his pose, waiting for him to speak.

  “Ten years is a long time, Aralorn. Is Sianim so far that you could not visit?”

  Aralorn met his eyes. “I wrote nearly every month.” She stopped to clear the defensiveness out of her voice. “I don’t belong here, Hart. Not anymore.”

  His black eyebrows rose to meet his brick red hair. “This is your home—of course you belong here. Irrenna has kept your room just the way you left it, hoping you’d visit. Allyn’s toadflax, you’d think we were Darranians the way you—” He stopped abruptly, having been watching her face closely. His jaw dropped for a moment, then he said in a completely different voice, “That is it, isn’t it? Nevyn got to you. Father said he thought it was something of the sort, but I thought you knew better than to listen to the half-crazed prejudices of a Darranian lordling.”

  Aralorn smiled ruefully, hurt assuaged by the realization that it was anger, not rejection, that had caused his restraint. “It was more complicated than that, but Nevyn is certainly the main reason I haven’t been back.”

  “You’d think that a wizard would be more tolerant,” growled Hart, “and that you would show a little more intelligence.”

  That turned her smile into a grin. “He’s not all that happy about being a wizard—he just didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

  “You could have won him over if you had wanted to, Aralorn.” He had not yet decided to forgive her. “The man’s not as stupid as he acts sometimes.”

  “Maybe,” she conceded. “But, as I said, he wasn’t the only reason I left. I was never cut out to be a Rethian noble-woman, any more than Nevyn could have lived in Darran as a wizard. Sianim is my home now.”

  “Do they know you’re a shapeshifter?” he inquired coolly.

  “No.” She grinned at him. “You know that the only people who would believe such a story are barbarians of the Rethian mountains. Besides, it’s much more useful being a shapeshifter if no one knows about it but me.”

  “Home is where they know all of your secrets, Featherweight, and love you anyway.”

  Aralorn laughed, and the tears that had been threatening since she heard about her father fell at last. When Falhart opened his arms, she took two steps forward and hugged him, kissing his cheek when he bent down. “I missed you, Fuzzhead.”

  He picked her up and hugged her, stiffening when he looked over her shoulder. He set her down carefully, his eyes trained on whatever he had seen behind her. “That wolf have
something to do with you?”

  She turned to see a large, very black wolf crouched several paces behind her. The hair along his spine and the ruff around his neck was raised, his muzzle fixed in an ivory-fanged snarl directed at Falhart.

  “Wolf!” Aralorn exclaimed, surprise making her voice louder than she meant it to be.

  “Wolf!” echoed an archer on the walls, whose gaze was drawn by Aralorn’s unfortunate exclamation. The astonishment in his voice didn’t slow his speed in drawing his bow.

  Lambshold had acquired its name from the fine sheep raised here, making wolves highly unpopular in her father’s keep.

  Aralorn threw herself on top of him, keeping herself between him and the archer, knocking Wolf off his feet in the process.

  “Aralorn!” called Falhart behind her. “Get out of the way.”

  She envisioned the large knife her brother had tucked in his belt sheath.

  “Hart, don’t let them . . . ooff—Damn it, Wolf, stop it, that hurt—don’t let them shoot him.”

  “Hold your arrows! He’s my sister’s pet.” Falhart bellowed. In a much quieter voice, he added, “I think.”

  “Do you hear that, Wolf?” said Aralorn, an involuntary grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. “You’re my pet. Now, don’t forget it.”

  With a lithe twist, Wolf managed to get all four legs under him and threw her to one side, flat on her back. Placing one heavy paw on her shoulder to hold her in place, he began to industriously clean her face.

  “All right, all right, I surrender—ish . . . Wolf, stop it.” She covered her face with her arms. Sometimes he took too much joy in fulfilling his role as a wolf.

  “Aralorn?”

  “Irrenna.” Aralorn turned to look up at the woman who approached. Wolf stepped aside, letting Aralorn get to her feet to greet her father’s wife.

  Irrenna was elegant more than beautiful, but it would take a keen eye to tell the difference. There was more gray in her hair than there had been when Aralorn left. If Irrenna wasn’t as tall as her children, she was still a full head taller than Aralorn. Her laughing blue eyes and glorious smile were dulled by grief, but her welcome was warm, and her arms closed tightly around Aralorn. “Welcome home, daughter. Peace be with you.”

  “And you,” replied Aralorn, hugging her back. “I could wish it were happier news that brought me here.”

  “As do I. Come up now. I ordered a bath to be prepared in your room. Hart, carry your sister’s bags.”

  Futilely, Aralorn tried to keep her saddlebags on her shoulder, but Falhart twisted them out of her hands as he said in prissy tones, “A Lady never carries her own baggage.”

  She rolled her eyes at him before starting up the stairs into the keep.

  “Dogs stay out of the keep,” reminded Irrenna firmly when Wolf followed close on Aralorn’s heels.

  “He’s not a dog, Irrenna,” replied Aralorn. “He’s a wolf. If he stays out, someone’s going to shoot him.”

  Irrenna stopped and took a better look at the animal at Aralorn’s side. He gazed mutely back, wagging his tail gently and trying to look harmless. He didn’t quite make it in Aralorn’s estimation, but apparently Irrenna wasn’t so discerning because she hesitated.

  “If you shut him out now, he’ll only find a way in later.” Aralorn let a note of apology creep into her voice.

  Irrenna shook her head. “You get to explain to your brothers why your pet gets to come in while theirs have to stay in the kennels.”

  Aralorn smiled. “I’ll tell them he eats people when I’m not around to stop him.”

  Irrenna looked at Wolf, who tilted his head winsomely and wagged his tail. “You might have to come up with a better story than that,” Irrenna said.

  Hart frowned; but then, her brother had seen Wolf when he wasn’t acting like a lapdog.

  Having heard the acceptance in Irrenna’s voice, Wolf ignored Hart and leapt silently up the stairs to wait for them at the door to the keep.

  Aralorn stepped into the great hall and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She could pick out the earthy smell impregnating the old stone walls that no amount of cleaning could eradicate entirely, wood smoke from the fires, rushes sweetened with dried herbs and flowers, and some ineffable smell that no place else had.

  “Aralorn?” asked her brother softly.

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’m just a bit tired.”

  Falhart frowned, but followed Irrenna through the main hall, leaving Aralorn to fall in behind.

  The cream-colored stone walls were hung with tapestries to keep out the chill. Most of the hangings were generations old, but several new ones hung in prominent places. Someone, she noticed, had a fine hand at the loom—she wondered if it was one of her sisters.

  She tried to ignore the red carnations strewn through the hall: spots of bright color like drops of fresh blood. Red and black ribbons and drapes were hung carefully from hooks set in the walls, silently reminding her of the reason she had returned to Lambshold. The joy of seeing Hart and Irrenna again faded.

  This was not her home. Her big, laughing, cunning, larger-than-life father was dead, and she had no place here anymore. Wolf’s mouth closed gently around her palm. A gesture of affection on the part of the wolf, he said, when she asked him about it once. She closed her fingers on his lower jaw, comforted by the familiar pressure of his teeth on her hand.

  The hall, like the courtyard, was subdued, with only a minimal number of servants scurrying about. On the far end of the room, the black curtains were drawn across the alcove where her father’s body would be lying. Wolf’s teeth briefly applied heavier pressure, and she relaxed her hand, realizing she’d tightened her grip too much.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Irrenna stopped. “You go on up. I’ll let the rest of the family know that you’re here. Your old dresses are still in good condition, but if they don’t fit, send a maid to me, and I’ll see what can be done. Falhart, when you have taken Aralorn’s bags up, please attend me in the mourning room.”

  “Of course, thank you.” Aralorn continued up the stairs as if she had never refused to wear the dresses fashion dictated a Rethian lady confine herself to—but she couldn’t resist adding dryly, “Close your mouth, Hart. You look like a fish out of water.”

  He laughed and caught her easily, ruffling her hair as he passed. He drew his hand back quickly. “Ish, Aralorn, you need to wash your hair while you’re at it.”

  “What?” she exclaimed, opening the door to her old room. “And kill off all the lice I’ve been growing for so long?”

  Hart handed her bags to her with a grin. “Still smart-mouthed, I see.” When Aralorn tossed her bags into a heap on the floor, he added, “And tidy as well.”

  She bowed, as if accepting his praise.

  He laughed softly. “Irrenna will probably be sending something up for lunch, in case you don’t want to eat with the crowd that will be gathering shortly in the great hall. I’ll see that someone carries hot water up here as well.”

  “Falhart,” said Aralorn, as he started to turn away. “Thank you.”

  He grinned and flipped her a studied gesture of acknowledgment (general to sublieutenant or lower), then strode lightly down the hall.

  Aralorn stepped into the room and, with a grand sweep of her arm, invited Wolf to follow. As she closed the door, she glanced around the bedchamber and saw that Falhart was closer to the mark than she’d expected. Her room wasn’t exactly as she’d left it—the coverlet was drawn neatly across the bed, and the hearth rug was new—but it was obvious that it had been left largely as it had been the last time she’d slept here. Given the size of Lambshold and the number of people in her family, it was quite a statement.

  “So,” commented the distinctive gravel-on-velvet voice that was Wolf’s legacy from the night he destroyed a tower of the ae’Magi’s keep, “tell me. Why haven’t you come here in ten years?”

  Aralorn turned to find that Wolf had assum
ed his human shape. He was taller than average, though not as tall as Falhart. There was some of the wolf’s leanness to his natural form, but his identity was more apparent in the balanced power of his movements. He was dressed in black silk and linen, a color he affected because it was one his father had not worn. His yellow eyes were a startling contrast to the silver player’s mask he wore over his scarred face.

  It wasn’t actually a player’s mask, of course: No acting troupe would have used a material as costly as silver. The finely wrought lips on its exaggerated, elegant features were curled into a grimace of rage. She frowned; the mask was a bad sign.

  Aralorn wasn’t certain if he’d chosen the mask out of irony or if there was a deeper meaning behind it, and she hadn’t thought it important enough to ask. He used the mask to hide the scars he’d gotten when he’d damaged his voice—and to put a barrier between himself and the real world.

  It was her vexation with his mask rather than a reluctance to answer his question that prompted her to ignore his query and ask one of her own. “Why did you leave me again?”

  She knew why; she just wondered if he did. Ever since he’d first come to stay with her, even back when she’d thought he really was a wolf, whenever they grew too close, he would leave. Sometimes it was for a day or two, sometimes for a month or a season. But this time it had hurt more, because she thought they had worked past all of that—until she awoke alone one morning in the bed she’d shared with him.

  She might not need him to tell her why he’d left, but she did intend to discuss it with him. She needed to tell him, if he didn’t already know, that the change in their relationship meant that some other things would also have to change. No more disappearing without a word. Anger would distract her from the bleak knowledge that her father was gone, so she waited for Wolf to explain himself. Then she would yell at him.

  He caught up her bags in a graceful motion and took them to the wardrobe without speaking. He closed the door, and, with his back to her, said softly, “I—”