Wolfsbane (36 page)

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 known 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.

He remembered and wept where there was no one to see.

Aralorn fretted through dinner. Her theory was a fishing net with holes a sailing ship could get through.

She knew the story about Anslow was true. She’d had it from Ren the Mouse, who’d been a personal friend of the thief-taker. Was she wrong in thinking that the odd vision she’d had of Nevyn as a tree split down the middle meant he had no idea of what his darker half had done?

For that matter, why was she certain it was Nevyn? Kisrah might have depths she’d never seen. Why couldn’t he be the one who was dreamwalking? It was he who said that Geoffrey and Nevyn were the only ones who could dreamwalk. He might have lied. Maybe he and Nevyn were in it together.

Aralorn stared at the ceiling. Matters that had seemed so clear riding back from Ridane’s temple now seemed muddled. She really did not have enough evidence to know who was behind the Lyon’s bespelling—only that it was not Geoffrey.

“Aralorn, are you all right?” asked Irrenna.

Aralorn glanced up and realized that everyone was looking at her—obviously she’d missed something. Or maybe she’d been staring at the pickled eel on the flat of her knife for too long.

“Yes, sorry,” she answered. “Just tired.”

She set the black stuff back on her plate. Snake she could take or leave, but freshwater eel was beyond horrible—especially pickled. She vowed not to let herself get so distracted at mealtime again if the results could be so hazardous.

“I was asking you when you needed to be back at Sianim,” said Irrenna.

“Uhm.” She smiled. “I didn’t exactly take a formal leave of absence. Just left them a note. If they need me, they know where to find me.”

She would tell Wolf that she knew that it wasn’t Geoffrey, so he could take what precautions he could. When her father was back on his feet, they’d figure out the rest.

Wolf came back while she was getting ready for bed, surprising her by teleporting himself right into the room. She knew that he preferred to find somewhere private because the first few moments after he translocated, he was disoriented. He looked pale, but she thought it might just be the result of the spell.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“I have what I need,” he responded, swaying slightly where he stood.

He closed his eyes, and she ran to offer a supportive arm.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just dizzy.”

She was near enough to him to smell the familiar scent of the cave. “My nose tells me you’ve been to the Northlands. I thought you were going to check your father’s library.”

“My dear Aralorn,” he said, without opening his eyes, “a fair portion of my father’s library is in the cave.”

She laughed and hugged him, tucking her head against him in a manner that had become familiar.

“Did you find what you needed?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, tightening his arms until she squeaked.

“I figured out something, too,” she said.

“Oh?” He nuzzled at her neck, scratching her a little with the faint roughness of beard that was new-grown since that morning.

“Wolf, stop that—it tickles. It isn’t your father.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

He switched his attentions to her ear, and she shivered at the effect of his warm breath against her sensitive skin.

“He would—Wolf ...” She couldn’t speak for a moment.

“Hmm?”

“I asked Ridane’s priestess. She says he’s dead and not influencing anyone here.”

He stilled, then kissed the top of her head. “Smart.”

“Always,” she said smugly.

“I love you,” he said.

“Of course you do,” she said, to make him laugh—which it did. “I love you, too. Now you can kiss me.”

He bent down to her ear again, and whispered, “How long were you going to take before you told me that the priestess bound us together unto death?”

Now it was her turn to still. She felt guilty for half a breath, then she realized what his words really meant.

“How long have you known? Plague take you, Wolf.”

She tried to take a step away, but he held her too tightly. His breath seemed to be behaving oddly—then she realized he was laughing. She hit him—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to express her displeasure.

“Aralorn, Aralorn,” he tried to croon between laughs and pretending her halfhearted blows were hurting him. “Did you think I wouldn’t feel it when the priestess set a blood-bond between us? I am a black mage, my love. I understand about blood-bonds—and I can break them if I wish.”

“This one was set by a goddess,” she informed him.

“Maybe she could set a bond between us I could not break,” he told her. “But this one I could. If I wanted to.”

He lifted her off the floor to allow himself better access to her mouth—as well as various and sundry other sensitive areas. Aralorn caught her breath and braced her hands on his shoulders.

“I know you love me,” he told her, the laughter dying from his eyes.

She found herself blinking back tears as she heard how profoundly that knowledge had affected him.

“I know you love me, too,” she said, before her mouth was occupied by things other than speech.

Afterward, he slept. Snuggled tightly against him, Aralorn closed her eyes and wished she didn’t have to ask him to use the dark arts. He had tried to kill himself once rather than use them, but for her he would take the part he had been given. She didn’t know that she was worth it.

No good comes from black magic,
Kisrah had said. Ridane’s priestess had told her that someone would die before long. Aralorn shivered and shifted closer to Wolf as if she could protect him by her presence.

It hadn’t been said, but the assumption Wolf had led them all to was that he would remove the spell tomorrow. Surely that would give the dreamwalker something to fret about.