Wolfsbane (32 page)

Wide-eyed, she saw what Halven had meant when he’d said that Nevyn was broken and poorly mended. She had no experience to interpret what she saw, but it was like looking at a tree split by lightning. As the thought occurred to her, that’s what she saw, as if an illusionist had superimposed the image over Nevyn’s human form. One side of the tree struggled to recover, but the branches were gnarled, and the leaves were edged with an unhealthy gray. The other side was black and burnt.

Nevyn pulled his eyes away, but that didn’t release Aralorn from the vision. Sharp teeth closed on her hand, and she dropped her eyes to see Wolf beneath the table, glowing like lightning. Dazed, she blinked her eyes rapidly, only to see the bright wolf imposed on her eyelids.

Wolf growled, and Aralorn took in a deep breath and set her magic aside.

“You are quiet tonight,” said Correy in her ear. “Have you found out anything more about Father?”

His tone was conversational, so he hadn’t noticed her doing anything unusual.

“Enough to be hopeful,” she said, striving for a normal tone.

“Do you know who might have done it?” asked Freya.

Warily, Aralorn looked at her, but she saw only the face that Freya had always shown her.

Aralorn shrugged and, because she was thinking about what had just happened rather than paying attention to the conversation, she said more than she should have. “I think so, but he is dead now—so knowing who he is doesn’t do us much good.”

“Who?” asked Irrenna from the head of the table, her voice sharp.

Aralorn put down her knife and fork. “No one it would be healthy to accuse at this point. When I’m more certain of my facts, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Irrenna looked at her narrowly for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll hold you to your promise.”

The castle was quiet in the early-morning hour they’d chosen for their meeting. She and Wolf got to the bier room before dawn, more because she was too nervous to sleep longer than anything else. The guards had gotten used to her coming and going at odd hours, though this morning’s portal defender had given an odd look to the hen she’d stolen from the kitchen coop.

Wolf told her that he might need it if he decided to break the spell right then. Wolf hadn’t had to catch the blasted thing, of course.

She paced restlessly in the little room, taking a twisted path around the bier and the woven chicken basket, stopping now and again to touch her father.

Wolf lay with his nose tucked between his forepaws, watching her pace. “They’ll be here soon enough. Stop that.”

“Sorry”—she sat on her heels next to him and leaned against the wall—“I’m just anxious.”

“More anxious than the hen,” he commented shortly, “and with less reason, too.”

As if to emphasize his point, the hen clucked contentedly in its nest of hay. Aralorn stuck a sore finger in her mouth—the chicken had been upset when she grabbed it. “Nasty critter, anyhow.”

“Who’s a nasty critter?” asked Gerem suspiciously, pulling the curtain aside so he could enter.

“The hen,” said Aralorn, pointing at the villain with her chin.

Gerem peered at the battered crate. “What’d you bring a hen here for? Mother’s going to pitch a fit!”

“To free your Father,” replied Wolf.

Gerem came as close to jumping out of his skin as anyone Aralorn had ever seen. Three shades whiter than he’d been when he came in, he stared at Wolf.

“I see Kisrah informed him completely,” murmured Wolf sarcastically, wagging his tail gently as he returned the stare. “How much do you want to bet we get to inform him what method we’re using as well.”

“We needed him here,” warned Aralorn. “I don’t think that we can complain how it was done.” She stood up and turned to her brother. “Gerem, I’d like to introduce you to my—to my Wolf. At one point in time, he went by the name of Cain—son of Geoffrey ae’Magi. I’d suggest you be polite to him; at present, he appears to be the best chance we have of resurrecting Father.”

“The old ae’Magi’s son is a shapechanger?”

Aralorn blinked at him. One of the things her brother didn’t know, apparently, was Cain ae’Magison’s reputation. She supposed that made a certain amount of sense. Gerem had been a young boy when Cain dropped out of public view.

“Sometimes,” agreed Aralorn. “I find it a good thing that he takes after his mother’s side of the family.”

“Dead?” asked Wolf. “Of course, Father’s dead as well.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Do you
have
to go out of your way to intimidate everyone? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all work together this morning?”

“Ah,” said Kisrah, entering the room rather languidly.

He had to duck around the curtain to make certain it didn’t bend the pale pink feather that was set jauntily into his elaborate hairstyle. Wearing a three-foot-long feather was not something
Aralorn
would have done in his place; but then, she wouldn’t have worn pink with scarlet and emerald either. The brass bells on the heels of his shoes were nice, though—if impractical.

“I thought I would be the first one here. I see you brought the chicken. Marvelous. I thought I might have to do it.”

“We ought to make you do it,” said Wolf thoughtfully, “if only to see what the chickens would do when they heard those bells.”

“Unkind,” admonished Kisrah. “To intimate that I would risk scuffing these boots chasing chickens—what do you think I studied magic for, dear man?”

“They are joking,” said Aralorn, watching Gerem’s face. There were some benefits to Kisrah’s three-foot-long feather—it was hard to be frightened in the presence of such a creation.

Unexpectedly, Gerem grinned. “I’d place bets on Lord Kisrah. Nevyn told me about the time you chased a pick-pocket into the heart of the infamous slums of Hathendoe and came back unscathed. A chicken should be child’s play.”

“Stole my best gloves,” agreed Kisrah solemnly. “Purple with green spots, just the color and shape of spring peas.”

Gerem laughed but stopped when he saw Kisrah’s mournful face.

“Don’t worry about hurting his feelings,” rumbled Wolf. “He knows what the rest of the world thinks about his clothes.”

Reassurance was not exactly Wolf’s strong point, so Aralorn was pleasantly surprised that he’d gone out of his way to smooth the waters.

The Archmage grinned, looking Gerem’s age despite his wrinkles. “Faugh, Cain, you ruined it. He would have begged my pardon in another moment.”

“I like the bells,” commented Aralorn, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “Perhaps I’ll get myself a pair.”

Kisrah looked superior. “Spies don’t wear bells.”

She snorted. “Fat lot you know about spies. I was in your household for three months, and you never even knew my name.”

He frowned, staring at her intently. “The maidservant . . . Lura—”

“Not even close.” She shook her head mournfully.

“She’s a shapeshifter,” said Gerem. “She wouldn’t look like herself.”

“Even if you did manage to guess what part she played, she’d never admit it,” added Wolf, coming to his feet.

He took on human form, leaving off the mask and the scars—for Gerem’s sake, Aralorn thought. She glanced at her brother, who was looking nervous again. Yes, she was definitely going to have to do something about the black clothing. It was hard to look intimidating in . . . say, yellow. She grinned at the thought of Wolf dressed in yellow, with a bow to hold his hair back in its queue.

Kisrah drew in his breath at seeing Geoffrey’s face on Wolf.

“You need to wear a different color,” she said out loud, to distract both Wolf and Kisrah from something neither cared to think about. “Black is so . . . so—”

“Conservative,” chided Kisrah, recovering from his initial shock.

Gerem looked from Kisrah in pink, red, and green to Aralorn in her muddy-colored tunic and trousers, then advised dryly, “Keep the black.”

Wolf, bless his soul, smiled—a small smile that bore little resemblance to the charm of his father’s. “I intend to.”

The curtain rattled again, and Nevyn shut it carefully behind him. He surveyed the room, his eyes stopping on Wolf.

“Cain,” he said, in a tone that was more of an acknowledgment than a greeting.

At his entrance, Wolf had gone still, almost, thought Aralorn, apprehensive.

“Nevyn.”

“It’s been a long time. I—I—I had forgotten how much you look like him.” The stutter irritated Nevyn, and he stiffened further.

Rather than make things worse, as was his general reaction to people who feared him, Wolf merely nodded. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes,” agreed Kisrah. “We’re all here now.” He looked around, and for lack of a better place, he pulled himself up on the bier to sit beside the Lyon. “What do you need from us?”

“I need to know what you have wrought,” said Wolf. “So I can unmake it.”

“Then I’ll tell my part first.” The ae’Magi wiggled his feet, and the bells chimed softly in response.

“Tell us all of it,” suggested Aralorn. “Not just the spell—not everyone here knows what has been going on. I suspect that Gerem, for one, has no idea what happened to him, and we still only have guesses about who is responsible for this mess.”

“The whole story?” asked Kisrah. “There are parts that should remain secret.”

“Everyone here knows how my father died, or should,” said Wolf. “We might as well tell our version, too—after you are through with your story, Kisrah.”

“Very well, then,” agreed the ae’Magi. “I’m no storyteller, but I’ll tell you as much as I remember. Shortly after Geoffrey—the ae’Magi—died . . . I had a dream.”

Aralorn saw Gerem stiffen, like a good hound on a scent: Gerem had dreamed, too.

Kisrah continued. “Geoffrey came to me as I slept and sat upon the end of my bed—just as he used to.

“ ‘My friend,’ he said. ‘I have nowhere else to turn. I need your magic to come to my touch.’

“This surprised me greatly, for he was the greatest mage I ever saw.

“ ‘A spell?’ I asked. ‘Can’t you work it yourself?’

“He shook his head chidingly, and said, with that grin he used when I was being particularly obstinate, ‘Dead men cannot use magic, child.’

“I woke up, sweating like a frightened horse, but there was nothing in my room that hadn’t been there when I went to sleep. I thought at first that it had simply been a dream. But I’d forgotten what Geoffrey was.”

“A dreamwalker,” said Nevyn softly.

Kisrah nodded. “Exactly.” He looked at Gerem. “Do you know what dreamwalking is?”

“Yes,” replied Gerem. “Nevyn does it.”

Nevyn is a dreamwalker?
thought Aralorn.

“Right,” agreed Kisrah. “There are a number of mages who can dreamwalk at the most basic level—fardreaming, it’s called. While fardreaming, a mage can send his spirit outside his body, usually no farther than a mile or two. Dreamwalking, though, is much more powerful and unusual. Nevyn and Geoffrey are the only living mages I’ve heard of who can send their spirits anywhere they want to. Generally speaking, a dreamwalker cannot affect the physical world—like moving chairs or tables. I say ‘generally’ because one or two of the better dreamwalkers were said to have tossed a chair or two.”

“Or a knife,” added Wolf dryly.

Kisrah nodded. “I stand corrected. A dreamwalker also cannot work magic in his spirit form. What he
can
do is look and listen without people suspecting they are being watched. And, though he can’t talk in a normal manner, he can communicate in a fashion called dreamspeaking.”

“Like a mindspeaker?” asked Gerem.

Kisrah nodded, “Only better. It takes one mindspeaker to hear another. A dreamspeaker can make himself heard by anyone he wants.”

Aralorn thought about the conversation she’d overheard and wondered if the dreamwalker who’d been Geoffrey had known that she was there listening.

“Anyone?” asked Gerem. “I thought that when a wizard becomes an apprentice, his dreams are protected by the Master Spells.”

“That’s right,” said Kisrah, though his mouth tightened just a little. “Smart lad. Yes, the Master Spells protect young wizards to a certain extent. There are other ways to ward yourself, too. It is possible for a dreamwalker to manipulate an unprotected person through dreams. Unethical, but there you are. But dreamspeaking isn’t any more manipulative than normal speech.”

Yes,
thought Aralorn, watching Gerem as relief touched his face.
No need to feel so guilty. You were not protected from the dreamwalker’s manipulations.
Kisrah and Nevyn had known what they were doing.

Aloud, she asked, “Is magic necessary for dreamwalking, or are there dreamwalkers who are not mages?”

“Dreamwalking is a magic talent, like transporting things or illusions. Geoffrey said”—Kisrah hesitated—“if a dreamwalker’s body is killed while he is walking, his spirit can remain behind. Like a ghost, but with the full consciousness of the living person. He told me that the second time he came. And then he told me how he died.” Kisrah looked at Wolf, who looked back without any expression at all.