Wolfsbane (12 page)

“Rose quartz,” murmured Wolf. “It seems we are welcome here.”

Even so, Aralorn was unsurprised when the stone pointed them down the gorge.

“I knew I should have held out for luck,” she said. “Sometimes, there are ways around the gorge.”

There was no trail. Aralorn tore the knee out of her pants and almost lost her cloak before they arrived safely at the bottom. Wolf, of course, had no difficulty at all.

They emerged from the deep undergrowth into a small grotto. From the cliffs overhead, a solidly frozen waterfall plunged into an ice-covered pool. The transformation from the dense gray vegetation to the pristine little valley was shockingly abrupt, as if they had stepped into someone’s neatly kept castle garden. Even the snow that covered the ground was evenly dispersed, unmarred by footprints.

“This is it,” announced Aralorn with satisfaction. After a moment, she nodded toward the waterfall. “I spent one summer trailing streams in this part of Lambshold, trying to find every stream anywhere near here, and never found one that came through this grotto. I even tried to back-track this one, but I never managed it. I’d look away for a moment, and the stream would be gone.”

“I could do that with a variation of the
lost
spell.” Wolf eyed the rushing water speculatively.

“If you say so.” She heaved a theatrical sigh. “ ‘Frustrating’ is what I called it.”

He laughed. “I’ll bet you did. Isn’t there supposed to be someone here?”

“No, this is just the end of the maze. There’s a trail over by the waterfall,” Aralorn said, and began picking her way up the path that edged the pond.

A thin layer of snow turned to a sheet of ice as they approached the waterfall. Aralorn set her feet carefully and kept moving. Wolf drew to a halt and growled.

“I know,” said Aralorn quietly, stepping behind the shimmering veil of the frozen waterfall. “Someone’s watching us. I had expected them earlier.”

The difference between the bright daylight and the shadow of the falls caused her to stop to allow her eyes to adjust. Wolf bumped into her, then slipped past, examining the stone surface of the cliff face behind the waterfall. Behind a thin sheet of ice over the rock where a few last trickles of water had frozen, there was a small tunnel in the rock.

“That goes in about ten feet and ends,” said Aralorn. “I stayed there overnight once, but it was summer.”

The far end of the narrow path behind the falls was frozen over, but a few hits with the haft of one of her knives broke a small hole, and her booted foot cleared a space large enough to climb through.

Once out from under the waterfall, their way twisted up the side of the mountain. The path was cobbled, and the smooth stones were slicker than the natural ground. Aralorn tried to walk beside the path as much as she could. The climb was thankfully short, only to the top of the falls.

Over the years, the stream that formed the waterfall had cut a deep channel between the two mountains that fed it with the runoff from the snowy peaks. The path was cut into the side of one mountain several feet above the stream, winding and twisting with the course of the water.

After walking a mile or so, the path turned abruptly away from the mountain, through a thicket of brush and into a wide valley.

Wolf could still feel the eyes watching them, though he couldn’t tell where the spy was. It was not magic that told him so much, but the keen senses of the wolf. Not scent, nor sight, nor hearing, but faint impressions gathered from all three. It distracted him as he examined the place to which Aralorn had brought them.

The valley was surrounded by steep-sided hills that reminded him of the valley in the Northlands where he’d spent the past winter, although that had been far smaller. Someone had taken a lot of time to find a place this sheltered. The stone path, now half-buried in the snow, led up a slight incline to a pair of gateposts. Other than those, the valley appeared empty. Perhaps, he thought as he followed Aralorn, the village was located over the next rise.

Then, between one step and the next, magic rose over him from the ground, momentarily paralyzing him with its strength. Defensively, he analyzed it: a blending illusion that utilized the lay of the land to hide something in the valley.

Without conscious act, he found himself holding the magic to break the spell, magic that had nothing to do with the familiar, violent forces he normally worked. This was a surge of power that took its direction from the brief alarm he’d felt at the sudden wall of magic. It flared in an attempt to twist out of his fragile hold and attack the ensorcellment before him. The effort it took to restrain it challenged his training and power both.

“Wolf?”

Even wrapped as he was in the grip of his power, her voice reached him. Fear of what his magic would do to her gave him the strength to contain it, just barely.

“Wolf?” Aralorn said again, kneeling beside him.

She didn’t dare touch him as he swayed and shook with rhythmic spasms. Gradually, the spasms slowed and stopped. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up at Aralorn.

“Problems?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to wait for me back by the waterfall?”

“No,” he said. “It’s all right now. It just took me by surprise.”

She looked at him narrowly for a moment before deciding to accept his word on the matter.

“Fine, then. There is some kind of protective illusion over the village. I don’t think we ought to tamper with it, but if we approach, I suspect we’ll be met.”

“Such an illusion is not the usual practice?” He sounded as controlled as he usually did, though he was so tense she could see the fine trembling of his muscles.

Aralorn shook her head in answer. “Not when I lived here.”

Though the village was hidden, the gateposts that marked the entrance were still there. Wolf, the ruff on his neck still raised from his battle for control of his magic, ranged in random patterns to either side.

“Stay on the path,” she warned him. “They wouldn’t have left the gateposts here if they didn’t have something nasty protecting the village from people who aren’t polite enough to enter by the proper way.”

When she tried to walk between the gateposts, a barrier of magic stopped her. It wasn’t painful, just solid.

Aralorn drew the rune she’d used in the maze on the left-hand pillar, but the barrier remained. She frowned but didn’t try to force her way through the gate.

Instead, she spoke to the watcher who’d accompanied them from the waterfall. “I have come to speak with Halven, my uncle.” Her tongue fought her a little as she curled it around the shapeshifter language that she hadn’t used since she’d last been here.

Beyond the posts, the wind stirred the snow into random swirls. The quiet was oppressive and uncomfortable.

Turning to Wolf, Aralorn said, “They may make us wait for a long time. Sometimes, the oddest things strike them as humorous.”

Without reply, Wolf made himself comfortable though he fairly vibrated with tension. Aralorn shivered as a cold breeze ran under her cloak.

“It is cold here,” said a man behind her in the same tongue she’d used. “You must want to talk to this uncle very badly.”

Wolf came to his feet with a growl; he hadn’t heard the man approach.

She put a hand on his head, then turned to face the stranger.

Shapeshifters were hard to identify: They could assume any features they chose. Nothing in the beautiful face and artfully swept-back bronze hair was familiar. Voices, though, were more difficult to change, and given a moment to recover, she knew who it was. She smiled.

“Badly,” she agreed, switching to Rethian for Wolf’s sake. “I would have waited a lot longer than this, Uncle Halven.”

“You might have indeed,” he replied without altering his language, “had I not seen you myself. I am not high in favor at this moment, and you never were.”

“You flatter me,” Aralorn replied. She continued to speak Rethian. If he was going to be rude, she’d follow his lead. “As I recall, I was too insignificant to warrant animosity.”

Halven smiled like a cat—with fangs and cold eyes. “Aralorn the half-breed certainly was, but the Sianim spy is a different matter altogether.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Spy? Who says I am a spy?”

“If you would talk,” said Halven mildly, “it would best be done here.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “I apologize in advance for keeping you out in the cold.”

“Not at all.” Halven was suddenly all gracious host, though he’d yet to switch to Rethian, which he would have if he’d really been in an accommodating mood. “What brings you and your dog here on this chilly morning?”

Wolf was sometimes mistaken for a dog by people who hadn’t seen him move because he lacked the usual gray coat. It surprised her that Halven would mistake him, though, and she almost turned to look at Wolf. But she didn’t want to draw her uncle’s attention to him.

Assuming the shapeshifters were as resistant to the ae’Magi’s magic as she had been, there was no reason they would be upset about his death; but she would rather they didn’t know any more about Wolf than was necessary. Unlike the people at Lambshold, if Halven looked closely, he might be able to tell that Wolf was a shapeshifter—and a both green and human mage of great power. With that much information, it was only a step to identify him as Cain ae’Magison, who killed the ae’Magi. The shapeshifters didn’t talk much to people in the outside world, but that was one thing she would rather no one knew. The ae’Magi’s spells ensured that almost everyone loved him—and if they knew where Cain was, they would try to kill him.

The maze stones knew what, and who, Wolf was already, but they seldom spoke anymore.

“Have you heard that my father’s been taken ill?” she asked.

“I’d heard he was dead,” replied Halven flatly.

“Yes, well these things do get exaggerated upon occasion, don’t they?” Aralorn said. “I’m pleased to tell you that he’s alive, but there is some sort of magic binding keeping him in a deathlike trance. I wondered if you might know something about it.”

For a moment, her uncle’s expression changed, too quickly for her to catch what it was he felt; she hoped he was glad the Lyon wasn’t dead.

Seeing her face, Halven laughed with real humor that pierced the armor of his outward charm like a ray of sunlight through a stained-glass window. “You want to know if I did it, eh?”

“That was the general idea,” she replied.

“No, child, I haven’t done anything to him. As a matter of fact, we have begun to exchange favors.” He shook his head in bemusement. “I never thought I would deal with a human, but the Lyon is nothing if not persistent—much like his daughter.”

Relief swept through her. Halven prided himself on being truthful in all things. If he’d hurt her father, he’d have told her or found some clever way of not admitting one way or the other.

“Would you be willing to come and look at him? I’ve never seen anything like the spell that holds him—I can’t even tell if it is green magic or human.”

Halven was shaking his head before she finished speaking. “No. Call down one of the human mages. My position in the quorum of elders is touchy enough without risking a visit to the human stronghold. They feel I have compromised our safety, though they agreed before I helped your father with his breeding project.”

“The ryefox,” said Aralorn thoughtfully. “That’s the reason for the new glamour and protection for the village. Too many people know you’re here. What did my father give you for your help?”

“The Lyon has deeded this section of Lambshold to me and my kindred by special dispensation of the new king. We also have a treaty calling for the protection of our land by the Lord of Lambshold in perpetuity.”

“If the Lyon said it, it is true,” said Aralorn. Then she raised an eyebrow. “
If
he had time to tell my brother Correy about it. You can’t expect Correy to take
your
word on the matter, given the suspicion that you yourself might have caused my father’s strange condition.”