Wolfsbane s-2 Read online

  * * *

  Nevyn, she thought as she mounted Sheen. It is Nevyn.

  The stallion snorted and sidled and generally kept her attention until they were well on their way back to Lambshold. As she’d listened to Gerem’s story, she had known it wasn’t Geoffrey. If Geoffrey had known that there was a mage of Gerem’s potential, untrained, at Lambshold, he would have moved mountains to get to him—untrained mages gave him so much more power than trained mages. So Geoffrey hadn’t known about Gerem before he died. And, as a dead man seeking revenge, he would not have used Gerem to do his work—he’d have used Anasel. Surely a doddering old man who had been a great mage would have been a better target. But Nevyn avoided Anasel as he avoided most of the mageborn if he could. If he needed two other mages to help him, it would be Kisrah and Gerem. But Nevyn would never hurt her father.

  One of Aralorn’s greatest talents as a spy, other than being able to turn into a mouse, was her ability to take a few bits of knowledge and knit them into a whole story.

  Kisrah told her that Nevyn was a dreamwalker.

  Kisrah had long been a favorite of the ae’Magi’s and spent a lot of time at the ae’Magi’s castle.

  Nevyn, who’d already suffered from being a mageborn Darranian, had been first apprenticed to a wizard who had abused him. That wizard, though powerful, had a bad enough reputation that the ae’Magi had never associated with him willingly.

  Those were the facts she had. It was enough for an experienced storyteller to work out the probabilities.

  She saw in her head that boy, wary and nervous, taken by his new master to the ae’Magi’s castle. Abused children try to protect themselves any way they can. They hide, they try to please their abuser, they use their magic. Santik had not been a dreamwalker; certainly his apprentice would have used his talent to spy upon him to try to stay safe. Perhaps dreamwalking to watch his master had already been a habit when he’d gone into Kisrah’s care.

  Kisrah would certainly have taken his new apprentice to the ae’Magi to see if Geoffrey had suggestions on how to handle the boy. Like Kisrah himself, Nevyn had had the promise of power, and Geoffrey would never have let such a wizard in his presence without ensuring that he, too, was caught up in the charisma spell. Maybe Nevyn had a ring like Kisrah’s or some other bit of jewelry, given to him by the ae’Magi.

  She wondered how long it had been before Nevyn, dreamwalking, had first spied upon the ae’Magi. Because once he had been abused, he certainly would have had trouble believing in the goodness of those assigned to his care. Spying on Kisrah would have caused him no harm. But the ae’Magi . . . Even Kisrah, an adult, had been torn by the discrepancy between how he felt about Geoffrey because of the charisma spell and what he witnessed at the ae’Magi’s castle. And Kisrah hadn’t seen half of it. Wolf had—and Aralorn would have bet that Nevyn had as well.

  Ah, gods, she thought. The poor boy.

  Sheen guided himself for a bit while she dropped her reins to wipe at her eyes. He shook his head when she drew the reins taut again.

  That first time, she thought, how old was Nevyn the first time? What did he see?

  She’d seen Geoffrey kill children, had seen a man she knew in the face of a shambling Uriah, had seen a woman who turned into a flesh-eating thing—and she’d only been around the last ae’Magi for weeks, not years. Wolf had experienced worse—and so, she was certain, had Nevyn. All the while he’d been defenseless, caught up by the ae’Magi’s spell that bound him to think that the Archmage was the best, most wonderful of good men.

  Each thread of the story flowed worse than the last.

  Spying on the ae’Magi would have allowed Nevyn access to black magic. Geoffrey was a dreamwalker, too. Had he known that Nevyn was spying?

  Of course he had, she thought. How could he not? Geoffrey had been as powerful as only a black mage who was also the Archmage could be. Had he compared them, Wolf and Nevyn, as he taught them both things children should never have to know? Nausea curled in her belly. It would have given him great pleasure to have them both, she thought, one boy who fought him and one who had already been taught to please an abusive master and now had one he was forced to love.

  Nevyn would have been fully under the influence of the ae’Magi’s magic. Knowing that the ae’Magi was wonderful and seeing the horrors he committed. What had that done to Nevyn?

  “Aralorn!” bellowed Falhart from the stable door as she rode up. “You missed our date.”

  “Date?” she raised her eyebrows.

  “Rematch, double or nothing—don’t you remember?”

  “Ah,” she said. “I wasn’t certain you’d let me have another match since you won the first. Luck can’t be with you all the time.”

  “Luck, she says!” He appealed to the interested spectators who’d begun gathering in the courtyard at his first bellow. Then he turned back to Aralorn. “Skill it was, and right well you know it, small one.”

  “Big people have farther to fall,” she retorted. “Let me get my staves, and I’ll meet you there.” She’d tire her body, then see if she could piece together some way to save her father, Nevyn, and Wolf. Because, with Nevyn as the enemy, Wolf was still at risk.

  TWELVE

  Falhart was waiting for Aralorn when she got to the practice grounds. He’d stripped down to his trousers, which was gutsy of him, if not too smart. A leather shirt was fair protection against bruises—and the cold for that matter.

  Shirtless, he appeared even larger than he did clothed, and if that flesh was tinged blue from the weather, it didn’t detract from the whole. From the looks of him, he trained as hard as any new recruit, for there wasn’t a spare bit of flesh anywhere.

  If she’d been the kind of person who was easily intimidated, she’d have been getting nervous. As it was, she looked around but didn’t see his wife or any other reason for the display—though there was a fair-sized crowd beginning to gather.

  Aralorn generally preferred to keep as much clothing on as possible when fighting someone who didn’t know her; the less anyone saw of her muscles, the more they underrated her abilities—not that she expected Falhart to underestimate her. Perhaps he fought stripped down to intimidate his opponent. If she were as large as he, she might try that tack, but she wouldn’t expect it to be too effective against a small woman who was used to fighting musclebound men.

  “Let you win once, and you get visions of invulnerability,” she mourned, gesturing toward his discarded clothing. “Just think of the bruises you’ll carry tomorrow.”

  “You talk pretty big for a little thing who got beaten soundly yesterday,” he returned, working his big staff in a pattern that made it blur and sing.

  His weapon was impressive: He was using his war staff rather than the practice one he’d had yesterday. It was half a foot taller than he was and as big around as he could comfortably hold—Aralorn doubted she could close her hand around it. It was stained almost black and shod with polished steel that caught the light as he made it dance. She shook her head at him—there were easier ways to warm up.

  Watching the gathering crowd, Aralorn grinned at the looks of awe her brother was receiving from the young men. Obviously, he didn’t put on a display like this every day.

  In comparison, she knew that she made a pitiful showing. She’d picked the same single staff she’d fought with yesterday: Her staff looked like a child’s toy in comparison to Falhart’s. She set it aside as she warmed up, stretching her muscles but not using them appreciably.

  She could hear active betting in the crowd, which meant that someone expected her to win, which surprised her given Hart’s show of force.

  “Got those five coppers handy?” she asked, as a way of announcing she was ready to fight. “I don’t accept credit.”

  “I’ve got them,” said Correy, pushing his way to the fore of the crowd and stepping over the low barrier that defined the ring. “Can’t even buy a night’s stay in a decent inn for that, Aralorn. Are you sure you don’t want to up
the bet?”

  She shook her head. “I never bet more than ten—and then only if it is a bet I’m certain to win. Any more than that, and I might miss it. I’m just a poor mercenary, not heir to a landed noble like some people I know. And, Correy, anyone who spends five coppers for a night at the inn better be paying for more than room and board, or else he’s getting rooked. Falhart, are you through wasting your strength yet?”

  He looked at Correy, who nodded.

  Which was odd—unless she tied it in with Falhart’s bare chest and the active betting. “It’s not kind to sucker people who can’t afford it, Correy,” she said softly.

  “I’m not taking more than they can afford—Father pays his men well.” He turned his back to the crowd so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Besides, Hart’s not throwing the fight. He just told me that he’d be surprised if you let him win twice in a row.”

  “He owes me a gold for fighting without my shirt,” murmured Hart. “I get that win or lose.”

  Aralorn grinned at him, “Does your wife know you take your shirt off for money?”

  “Just don’t tell Irrenna,” he pleaded—only half joking.

  “Oh-ho,” she crowed. “This sounds like blackmail material.”

  Hart rolled his eyes, “Can we get on with this? It’s blasted cold out here.”

  Aralorn straightened and shook her shoulders out. “Fine. I’ll add a little black to your blue skin.”

  Correy stepped out of the ring, leaving it to the combatants.

  The secret of fighting against a man using a tree was never to be where he thought you were going to be. Her staff could turn his, but if she was stupid enough to try to block his directly, it would snap.

  For the first few minutes, they fought silently, trying to take each other by surprise before it turned into an endurance contest. Falhart had to move more bulk around than Aralorn, but she had to move hers faster because of the length of his reach, so they were both breathing heavily when they backed off.

  “There’s a story I once heard,” she said, pacing around the ring without taking her eye off him, “about a thief-taker who worked for the king of Southwood several generations back. His name was Anslow.”

  “Never heard of him,” grunted Falhart, moving at her in a rush. She dove under his blow, tucked her stick neatly between his knees, and twisted. He fell to the ground, rolling, and she jumped lightly back out of his reach. “Don’t try that move on me again,” he warned. “Twice is pushing it.”

  She shrugged, grinning. “Some moves bear repeating, if only for entertainment value. That’s the trouble with your being so large—it’s too much fun to watch you fall.”

  They circled warily for a moment. Without the protection of a shirt, Falhart was more cautious than he’d been the day before. “Why don’t you continue with your story?”

  Aralorn nodded, walking backward as he stalked her. “Anslow solved crimes that had stumped many before him, winning a reputation as the best of his kind. There are stories of cases he solved with nothing but a bit of thread or a single footprint.”

  Falhart closed, taking a swing at her middle. Aralorn didn’t even pause in her story as she avoided the blow. “He was a legend in his own time, and lawbreakers walked in fear of his shadow. But there was one criminal who did not fear him.”

  “Stay put, you runt,” he snapped, as she dodged past him, catching him a glancing hit on his ribs.

  “Point,” she crowed. “This criminal was a killer who chose women for victims.”

  “I can see his—point,” muttered Falhart as he caught her squarely in the back, knocking the breath out of her.

  Chivalrously, he stepped back and waited for her to breathe again. It took her a moment before she came to her feet.

  “Allyn’s toadflax, Hart, that’s going to hurt tomorrow.”

  He grinned, showing not the least hint of remorse. “That’s the point of the whole thing.”

  “Right,” she said dryly, though she couldn’t help smiling.

  This was fun. She hadn’t been able to really cut loose since her last good sparring partner had been killed. If you didn’t trust the skills of your opponent, you couldn’t use your best moves against him unless you wanted to kill him. With a wild yell, she launched an attack designed to do nothing more than tire Falhart out.

  “You were telling me about the thief-taker,” he said, matching her blow for blow and adding a few moves of his own to show her she wasn’t in control of the fight.

  “Ah,” she said, slipping nimbly out of the path of his quarterstaff. “So I was. The killer took his prey only once a year, on the first day of spring. He laid his victims out in some public place in the dark of the night. As the years passed, the killer taunted Anslow, sending him notes and clues that did the thief-taker no good.”

  While he was extended in a thrust that she’d turned aside, she slipped the end of her staff sideways and hit him squarely in the breastbone, where it left a bruise to match the one on his ribs. “Two.”

  He growled and circled. She stuck her tongue out at him; he made a face.

  “The night before the killer would take his fifteenth victim,” she continued, “Anslow took every note the killer had sent him and set them before him, trying to find a pattern. He thought it was someone he knew, for the notes contained a few private references—things that only Anslow should have known.”

  She broke off speaking, for Falhart moved in with a barrage of blows that required all of her concentration to counter. At last, he managed to hit her staff directly, snapping it in two. The blow continued more gently, but she came out of the encounter with sore ribs.

  “Two,” he said.

  She snapped in with the remnants of the staff and poked him in the belly—gently. “Three—my match.”

  There were loud groans from the audience as they sorted out who owed what to whom. Falhart grinned and leaned on his staff.

  “So, tell me the rest of the story,” he said, breathing heavily.

  She sat down briefly on the ground, but the cold drove her to her feet. “About Anslow? Where was I?”

  “He had the notes from the killer in front of him.”

  “Ah, yes. Those notes. He set them out on his desk, oldest to newest. He had noticed early on that the killer’s handwriting bore a strong resemblance to his own—but it was the last letter he stared at. The killer’s hand had developed a tremor; the letters were no longer formed with a smooth, dark flow of ink. Just recently, Anslow had noticed that his hands shook when he wrote. He himself was the killer.”

  She touched the broken end of one of the sections of her staff in the dirt and dragged it back and forth gently in random patterns.

  Falhart frowned. “How could he be the killer and not know it?”

  Aralorn contemplated her broken staff as if it might hold the secrets of the universe. “There is a rare illness of the spirit in which a person can become two separate beings occupying the same body. There is a shadow that forms, watching everything the primary person does, knowing what he knows—but the real person may have no knowledge of what the shadow does when he controls the body.” She flipped the piece into the air and caught it.

  “Strange,” observed Falhart, shaking his head.

  Correy came up to them and took Aralorn’s hand in his, turned her palm upright, and placed six copper coins in it, talking to Falhart all the while. “Thanks for the tip, Hart. I got ten-to-one odds. It was only six to one before they had a chance to compare your manly figure with the midget here—you can put your shirt back on now.”

  * * *

  Wolf stared at the rows of books in his shelves, caressing the bindings gently. He didn’t pull any out—that could wait. He knew which ones held the information he needed. But he already knew what the spell would cost, had known, really, since Kisrah had told him that he’d killed a Uriah to set his spell, though he’d held out some hope until he’d heard everything that had been put into the binding magic holding the Lyon. He had kn
own that his father had at last succeeded in destroying him.

  A human had died to power the spell created by three mages. A human death was needed to unmake it. A Uriah counted as a person, ensorcelled and altered though he was—he had been a man once. If Kisrah had known the nature of the Uriah, he would have known such a sacrifice was necessary. He might have told Aralorn, then she would believe it was her decision to make. Wolf knew that it was his, and he had made it as soon as he realized what would be needed.

  How ironic that when he finally decided that he might actually deserve to live, he discovered that he was going to have to die. How had his father known that he would love Aralorn enough to sacrifice himself for her? Except that it wasn’t really for her, he realized, though that was part of it.

  He touched the backs of a half dozen of his favorite books, not rare grimoires but heroes’ tales. It was his father who had caused this, and only Geoffrey ae’Magi’s son could put an end to his father’s evil once and for all—if Cain ae’Magison could stiffen his will to it.

  He had always come to his books for the strength he needed to resist his father. So he had come here, to his collection of books that rested deep in the heart of a mountain in the Northlands, to find the strength to do the right thing.

  He walked on through the rows of books, pausing here and there to set one straight until he reached his worktable. Not bothering with the chairs, he sat on the table itself, right next to the pair of books he’d retrieved from the ae’Magi’s castle. He touched a splatter of ink, remembering days not long past that he and Aralorn had worked there, searching through the books for just the right spell. He remembered the ink that stained her hand and the table as she scratched out notes in handwriting that was just short of illegible.

  He remembered bringing her from his father’s dungeons more dead than alive, laying her still form on the couch, worrying that what he’d done for her wouldn’t be enough—that she would die and leave him alone again.