A chest-high rock wall marked the boundary where the grazing ended and the northern croplands began. Aralorn caught the top of the wooden gate barring the path and swung over without bothering to open it. Wolf bounded lightly over the fence a few feet away and landed chest deep in a drift of snow. He eyed her narrowly as he climbed back onto the path. Aralorn kept her face scrupulously blank.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, uhm, I was just going to advise you that this area gets windy from time to time—the mountains, you see. And . . . uh, you might want to watch out for drifts.”
“Thank you.” replied Wolf gravely, then he shook, taking great care to get as much of the snow on Aralorn as he could.
As they continued their journey, the path began to branch off, and the one that they followed got narrower and less well-defined with each division.
“Why farm this?” asked Wolf, eyeing the rough terrain. “The land we just traveled through is better farmland.”
“Father doesn’t do anything with this land. His farms are along the southern border, several thousand feet lower in altitude, where the climate is milder. But there is good fertile soil here in the small valleys between the ridges—the largest maybe twenty acres or so. The crofters farm it and pay Father a tithe of their produce for the use of the land and protection from bandits. He could get more gold by running animals here instead—but this makes good defensive sense. The lower fields are easily burned and trampled by armies, but up here it’s too much trouble.”
“Speaking of burning,” said Wolf, “something has burned here recently. Can you smell it?”
She tried, but her nose caught nothing more than the dry-sweet smell of winter. “No, but Correy said that one of the crofts had been burned. Can you tell where the smell is coming from?”
“Somewhere a mile or so in that direction.” He motioned vaguely south of the trail they were following.
“Let’s head that way then,” she said. “I’d like to take a look.”
They broke with the main path to follow a trail that twisted here and there, up and down, through the stone ridges. It had been well traveled lately, more so than the other such trails they had passed, although a thin layer of snow covered even the most recent tracks. As they neared the farm, Aralorn could smell the sourness of old char, but it didn’t prepare her for the sight that met her eyes.
Scorched earth followed the shape of the fields exactly, stopping just inside the fence line. The wooden fence itself was unmarked by the blaze, which had burned the house so thoroughly that only the base stones allowed Aralorn to see where the house had been. All around the croft, the fields lay pristine under the snow.
Wolf slipped through the fence and examined the narrow line that marked the end of the burn.
“Magic,” he said. He hesitated briefly, his nostrils flaring as he tested the air. “Black magic with the same odd flavor of the spells holding the Lyon. Look here, on the stone by the corner of the fence.”
She stepped over the fence and knelt on the blackened ground. Just inside the corner post, there was a fist-sized gray rock smudged with a rust-colored substance.
“Is it human blood?” she asked.
Wolf shook his head. “I can’t tell. Someone used this fire and the deaths here to gather power.”
“Enough power to set a spell on my father?”
Before he could answer, the wind shifted a little, and he stiffened and twisted until he could look back down their path.
Aralorn followed his gaze to see a man coming up the trail they had taken here. By his gray beard, she judged him to be an older man, though his steps were quick and firm. In ten years a child might become a man, but a man only grayed a bit more: She matched his features with a memory and smiled a welcome.
“Whatcha be doing there, missy?” he asked as soon as he was near enough to speak, oblivious to Aralorn’s smile.
“I’m trying to discover what kind of magic has been at work, Kurmun. What are you doing here? I thought your farm was some distance away.”
He frowned at her, then a smile broke over his face, breaking the craggy planes as if it were not something he did often. “Aralorn, as I live and breathe. I’d not thought to see tha face again. I told old Jervon that I’d have a look at his place, he’s still that shook. Commet tha then for tha father’s passing?”
She smiled. “Yes, I did. But as it turns out, Father’s not dead—only ensorcelled.”
Kurmun grunted, showing no hint of surprise. “Is what happens when tha lives in a place consecrated to the Lady. Bad thing, that.”
She shook her head. “Now, that was taken care of long since. You know the family’s not been cursed by the Lady since the new temple was built. This is something quite different, and it may take a few days to discover what. I thought the burning of the farm might have something to do with it.”
The old man nodded slowly. “Hadn’t thought there was a connection, but there might, there might at that. Have a care here, then. Tha father, he took ill here.”
“I didn’t know that.” But she could have guessed.
Black magic had long carried a death penalty. A mage would avoid it as much as possible. It only made sense that the black magic Wolf felt here would belong to the spell on the Lyon.
“Aye, he come here tha day after it burned. Walked the fence line, he did. Got to the twisted pole over there and collapsed.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” said Aralorn thoughtfully. “Why didn’t anyone at the hold mention it?”
“Well,” replied Kurmun, though she hadn’t expected him to answer her question, “reckon they didn’t know. Just he and I here, and I tossed him on his horse and took him to the hold. They was in such a state that no one asked where it’d happened. Only asked what, so that’s all I told they. This is some young men’s mischief, thought I then.” He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the burnt farm. “Tha father was felled by magic. Didn’t rightly think one had much to do with t’other myself. But if tha thinks it so, then so think I now.”
“I think it does,” she said. “Thank you. Did we lose any people?”
He shook his head. “Nary a one. Jervon’s oldest daughter come into her time. The missus and Jervon gathered they children and went up to attend the birth. Lost a brace of oxen, but they sheep was in lower pastures.”
“Lucky,” said Aralorn. “Or someone knew that they were gone.”
Kurmun grunted and scratched his nose. “The Lady’s new temple ha’ been cleaned and set to rights. Word is that there’s a priestess there now; I be thinking tha might want to be stopping in and talking to her. Happens she may help tha father. Happens not.” He shrugged.
“Ridane’s temple is being used?” There had been a lot more activity in the gods’ temples lately. She didn’t see how that could have any bearing on the Lyon’s condition, but she intended to check out anything unusual that had happened recently. “I’ll make certain to visit.”
“I’ll be on my way then,” he said, tipping his head. “Told my son’s wife I’d find a bit of salt for her out of the hold stores.” As he turned to go, his gaze met Wolf’s eyes. “By the Lady,” he exclaimed. “Tha beast’s a wolf.”
“Yes,” agreed Aralorn, adding hastily, “He doesn’t eat sheep.”
“Well,” said the old man, frowning, “see that he don’t. I’d keep him near tha so some shepherd doesn’t get too quick with his sling afore he has a chance to garner that tha wolf doesna eat sheep.”
“I intend to.”
“Right.” Kurmun nodded, and, with a last suspicious look at Wolf, he was on his way.
As soon as he was out of sight, Wolf said, “He called the death goddess the Lady?”
Aralorn smiled briefly. “Lest speaking her name call her attention to him, yes. The new temple is nearly five centuries old. ‘New,’ you understand, differentiates it from the ‘old’ temple that my long-dead ancestor had razed to build a hold. There wasn’t much left of the new temple when I last saw it; it�
�s been deserted for centuries. I wouldn’t think it would be possible to resurrect anything from the piles of stones. In any case, the temple is on the other side of the estate, so we’ll have to go there another day.”
She tapped her finger on a fence post. “This burned down before my father came here. Wouldn’t it have to happen at the same time?”
“There are ways to store power or even set spells to complete when certain conditions are met—like having your father come to this place.”
“It was a trap,” said Aralorn, “set for my father. The burning of the croft served both as bait and bane. Anyone who knew my father would know that he’d investigate if one of his people’s houses burned.” She shuffled snow around. “This farm is not too far from the shapeshifters’ territory. Other than knowing that it is possible for them to use blood magic, I don’t know what they would do with it or how. My uncle will know.”
“It could be a human mage,” said Wolf. “But any mage who came by here could tell that there was black magic done here. Why would they risk that? My father’s reign excepted, the ae’Magi’s job is to keep things like this from happening. They kill black mages, Aralorn. Only my father’s assurances and his power kept them from killing me—and they had no proof such as this. When we discover who did this, he will die. Why risk that merely to imprison the Lyon when killing would have been easier? What did he accomplish that was worth that?”
Silence gathered as Aralorn stared at the blood-splattered rock.
“Nevyn could do this,” said Wolf. “As long as no one knows I’m here, he will be the first one Kisrah ae’Magi will suspect. Nevyn first trained under old Santik.”
Aralorn frowned. She’d forgotten that as the ae’Magi’s son, Wolf would know a lot of the politics and doings of the mageborn. “Santik is someone Kisrah would associate with black magic?”
Wolf sighed. “His reputation wasn’t much better than mine—it wouldn’t surprise me or anyone else to find that he’d slipped into dark ways. Certainly, his library would have had the right books; nearly all the great mages have books they aren’t supposed to.”
“Nevyn’s first master was a great mage, too? Was that because of his family’s station?” Aralorn asked. “I thought the reason they married him off to my sister was that he wasn’t good enough to be a wizard proper. I’ve never seen him use magic at all.”
“He can work magic,” Wolf said. “They’d never have wasted Kisrah—or Santik, for that matter—on just any apprentice. But between Santik and being a Darranian-born mage, Nevyn learned to hate being a wizard. When Kisrah was satisfied that Nevyn could control his magic, he let him choose his own path.”
“You knew Nevyn,” said Aralorn slowly. It wasn’t in the details; those were something any wizard might know of another. It was the sympathy in Wolf’s voice. “Why didn’t you say something to me before?”
“We weren’t friends,” he said. “Not even acquaintances, really. Kisrah was a particular favorite of my father’s—”
“Because your father enjoyed playing games with honorable men,” muttered Aralorn.
“—whatever his reason,” continued Wolf, “and Kisrah brought Nevyn to the ae’Magi’s castle several times. Nevyn was quiet, as I remember him, always trying to disappear into the background. He had plenty of courage, though. I think I frightened him to death, but he never gave ground.”
“Ten years ago you were just a boy,” said Aralorn. “Nevyn’s a couple of years older than me—which makes him more than five years older than you.”
“I frightened a lot of people, Aralorn,” Wolf said.
She ruffled the fur behind his ears. “Not me. Come, let’s go visit my uncle so you can frighten him, too.”
* * *
As they climbed higher in the mountains, the area became heavily wooded, and they left behind all signs of cultivation. Here and there great boulders were scattered, some the size of an ox and others as big as a cottage. The narrow path they followed was obviously traveled by humans and game alike, and few enough of either. The dense growth, steep slopes, and snow made it difficult to find a place to leave the path. At last, Aralorn found a shallow, frozen creek to walk on.
“It must be uncomfortable to do this in the spring,” commented Wolf, stepping onto the snow-covered ice.
“It’s not easy anytime,” replied Aralorn, momentarily busy keeping her footing. After a moment, she realized his comment had more to do with the streambed they followed than the difficulty of the trail. “You don’t have to come this way exactly. All that’s necessary is to find someplace in this part of Lambshold that is not often traveled. Then you can find the maze.”
“The maze?” Wolf sounded intrigued.
She smiled, stopping to knock the snow that had packed itself around the short nails that kept the leather soles of her walking boots from slipping on the ice and snow. “You’ll see when we find it. But if you’d care to help, keep your eye out for a bit of quartz. I need it to work some magic. There should be quite a bit of it in the steep areas, where there’s no snow to cover it.”
They came to a small clearing bordered on two sides by the sharp sides of a mountain. Aralorn crossed the clearing and began searching for rocks on the steep areas where the sun and wind had left large sections bare.
“It doesn’t have to be quartz,” she said finally. “Sandstone would work as well.”
Wolf lifted his snow-covered nose from a promising nook under a clump of dead brush. “You could have said so earlier and saved yourself a case of frostbite. There is sandstone all over here.”
Aralorn tucked her cold, wet hands underneath her sweaters and warmed them against her middle as Wolf searched back and forth over the area they’d just covered. She’d taken her gloves off to push aside the snow that the afternoon sun had begun to thaw. They had too far to travel to risk getting her gloves wet. When she could feel her fingers again, she pulled the gloves out of her belt and slipped them over her hands.
“You know,” she said, as he seemed to be having no success finding the sandstone, “aren’t the crystals on your staff quartz?”
“I ought to let you try casting a spell using one of them,” said Wolf, not lifting his gaze from the ground, “but I find that I have become more squeamish of late. Ah, yes, here it is.”
Aralorn bent to pick up the smooth yellowish brown stone Wolf had unearthed and polish it free of dirt on her cloak.
“Sandstone is for perseverance,” she said, “quartz for luck. Which is why I started out looking for quartz: I suspect we’ll be spending the night up here.”
Wolf lowered his eyelids in amusement. “If you want luck, I have some opal you could use.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Aralorn demurred. “Ill luck I don’t need.”
She held the stone in her closed hand and raised her arm to shoulder height. Closing her eyes, she began singing. The song she chose was a children’s song in her mother’s tongue—though the words didn’t matter for the magic, just the pattern of the music, which would be their key to entering her mother’s world.
Slowly, almost shyly, awareness of the forest crept upon her. She could feel the winter sleep encasing the plants: wary curiosity peering at them from a rotted-out cedar in the form of a martin; the brook waiting for spring to allow it to run to the ocean far away. Finally, she found what she had been searching for and brushed lightly against the current of magic threaded throughout the forest. When she was certain it had perceived her, she stopped singing and allowed the awareness to pass from her. She looked down at the rock in her hands and, just for a moment, could see an arrow.
“Now, why doesn’t it surprise me that we have to travel up the side of the mountain?” she grumbled. She showed the arrow to Wolf, then tossed the stone back on the ground since it had served its purpose. “I should have brought some quartz from home. Irrenna won’t have disturbed my stashes of spell starters.”
“The maze would have been different?” asked Wolf, pacing beside her as
she started up the mountain.
“It’s always different,” replied Aralorn. “The magic I worked to find the start of the maze will only work with sandstone or quartz—someone’s idea of a joke, I suspect. You know—‘Only with luck or persistence will you find the sanctuary hidden in the heart of the mountains.’ The kinds of words storytellers are fond of. I prefer to start with luck.”
The mountainside looked rougher from the bottom than it actually was, an unusual occurrence in Aralorn’s experience. All the same, she almost missed the stone altogether, hidden in plain sight as it was in the midst of a dozen other large boulders.
“Good,” she said, turning abruptly off her chosen path upward and taking a steep downward route that brought her skidding and sliding to the cluster of granite boulders. “The maze remembers me.”
“Ah?”
Aralorn nodded, touching a stone half again as tall as she was and twice as wide. “This stone is the first. The identity stone—for me that has always been granite.”
“Granite for compromise,” rumbled Wolf, “or blending.”
“Right,” she smiled. “Blending—that’s me. You’ll have to touch it, too.”
Wolf pawed it gently, drawing back quickly as if he had touched a candle flame. “That’s not magic,” he said, startled.
“No,” agreed Aralorn, waiting.
“It’s alive.”
“That’s the secret of the maze,” she agreed.
She drew a simple rune on the granite boulder with a light touch of her finger. As with the sandstone, a directional arrow appeared, outlined in shimmering bits of mica. It pointed across the mountain.
As they started on the indicated route, Wolf was silent. Aralorn left him to his thoughts and concentrated on staying aware of their surroundings. The stones could be difficult to find. She was so busy peering under bushes that she almost missed the waist-high rock standing directly in her path, as out of place in its environment as a wolf in a fold.
“Obsidian,” observed Aralorn soberly, touching the black, glasslike surface. The second stone would be Wolf’s. The maze’s choice surprised her at first; she’d half expected hematite, for war and anger. But the stones of the maze had read deeper than that, identifying Wolf’s nature as clearly as they had seen hers. He wore the mask of anger on his face, but his heart was enclosed in sorrow.
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