Wolfsbane s-2

by Patricia Briggs

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Battles are odd things,” he said in musing tones. “Sometimes it seems as if you do nothing but hack and slash; at other times it seems as if you do nothing at all for weeks at a time. During the former, you learn a lot about your comrades by their actions; during the latter, you learn about them from their speech.”

  His gaze rested on the Lyon’s quiet figure. “Your father is ferocious, tireless, and absolutely honorable. But more than that, he is cunning, always thinking—especially in the thick of battle, when everyone else is lost in bloodlust. He taught me a lot about how to judge men, to choose leaders and followers. He knew every man in our group and used them according to their strengths, and he tried to know as much about the men we fought as he did our own.” He reached out and touched the Lyon’s still face. “I learned to love him as much as I ever did my own father—as I expect every man to fight under him felt.”

  While he spoke, Aralorn half sat, half leaned against the bier. When he paused to make sure she was listening, she nodded.

  “While we waited for battle, we talked, your father and I. He told me something of you. He told me you’d fought with him against brigands here at Lambshold and said he’d rather have had you beside him than any three men. He’d have brought you to fight by his side as he did Falhart if it hadn’t been for his lady wife. He said you were clever, devious, and deadly—said you could outthink and outride any man he had with him, including himself.”

  “You have a reason for all this praise, I trust,” said Aralorn.

  Kisrah nodded, and a sudden grin lit his face. “Absolutely. First, let me say that I do not accept your apology, as I’m certain that you intended every frustrating minute of our last meeting—and enjoyed it as well. Devious and manipulative, your father said.”

  He sobered, and Aralorn thought it might be sadness that crossed his face. “But—despite what I have been told, having the father you do, you could not be without honor and decency. I hope that a productive talk might shed some light on a few things. I think that I, too, have some things to tell you that it were better to talk of outside these walls.” He paused, and continued softly. “You might bring your wolf.”

  Aralorn nodded. “I’m sure Wolf will join us at some point in our journey. Father’s got enough animals around here that you shouldn’t have a problem finding a mount: I assume by the speed of your arrival that you chose to translocate yourself—”

  She didn’t know why she’d brought that up until she realized she was watching his face for guilt. There was none, of course; he hadn’t realized what Geoffrey had done to her after Kisrah had used his magic to transport her into the ae’Magi’s care.

  Instead, Kisrah nodded, with a faint grimace of distaste. “Not my favorite spell, but it was important that I get here as soon as possible.

  “You’re a braver man than I am,” murmured Aralorn. “I’ll meet you in the stables. Ask Falhart if you need help finding warm clothing.”

  * * *

  Aralorn had intended to take him only a short distance before stopping to talk, but she hadn’t counted on the wind. It kicked up when they were just out of sight of the keep.

  The voices screamed through her ears: screams that brought visions of Geoffrey’s dungeons and dying children, the cries of the Uriah—shambling, rotting things that had once been human but now only hungered. Sheen picked up on her agitation and began snorting and dancing in the snow, mouthing his bit uncertainly as he waited for an ambush to leap from the nearest bush.

  Hoping that the wind would settle down, she kept going. At this rate, they’d be at the temple before she could talk. She tried to ignore the wind for as long as she could, but at last she tucked the reins under her knees and tugged a woolen scarf from around her neck and wrapped it tightly around her ears.

  “Are you all right?” asked Kisrah.

  “I seem to have developed a bit of a problem with the wind,” she said truthfully: She tried to limit her lies when she could, especially when she was talking to wizards.

  “Earache?” said Kisrah with some sympathy.

  “I’m looking for someplace less windy,” she told him. “I hadn’t planned on riding all the way to the goddess’s temple for a little private conversation.”

  He smiled. “I could do with a little exercise anyway. But if you can find a sheltered place I might be able to do something about the wind.”

  She frowned at him. “You human mages,” she said. “Always so ready to impose your will where it doesn’t belong. There’s a small valley not too far from here; we’ll be free from the wind without any magic at all.”

  He looked startled for a moment. “I’ve never been referred to in quite those terms. Do you not think of yourself as human, then?”

  She smiled tightly, her tension owing more to the wind than any irritation with him. “No. But I won’t use the terms my shapeshifter cousins use for mageborn who use unformed magic. They aren’t flattering. Human will have to do.”

  As she’d thought it might, the steep sides of the valley—well, gully, really—provided some relief from the wind. Aralorn stopped Sheen and cautiously removed the scarf from her ears. The roar had died to a dull whisper she could safely ignore.

  “Why don’t you start, as you still owe me for your rudeness yesterday?” said Kisrah after he’d stopped and turned his horse so he faced her directly.

  “All right,” agreed Aralorn readily. “How much do you know about charismatic spells?”

  “What?” he asked in some surprise, but he answered her question without waiting for her to repeat herself. “I’ve never heard of one that was not black magic.”

  “Yes,” said Wolf from behind them, “they are. Of the blackest kind.”

  Aralorn turned to frown at Wolf. He was supposed to wait until she’d made certain that Kisrah wouldn’t attack him on sight. She supposed that it said something about Kisrah’s state of mind that he did not.

  Wolf was in human form, clothed as always in black—an affectation Aralorn was determined to change. It wasn’t that he didn’t look good in it, just that it was a bit morbid at times. The silver mask was nowhere evident, and the magic-scarred face looked worse than usual in the bright winter sunlight.

  “Cain,” said Kisrah softly, as if he hadn’t really believed what the specter had told him.

  Wolf bowed shallowly without letting his eyes drop from the Archmage’s. “Lord Kisrah.”

  “You are here to tell me the importance of . . . these charismatic spells, I assume?”

  Wolf shook his head. “I wouldn’t have mentioned them myself, but as Aralorn has seen fit to do so, I will explain—better yet, I’ll cast one.” He made an economical motion with his hand.

  Aralorn sucked in a breath at his recklessness. She would have thought the battle with his father would have cured him of seeking battle with another powerful mage. Couldn’t he have just told Kisrah how the spell worked?

  Kisrah looked white and strained, but he gestured with equal rapidity—a counterspell, thought Aralorn—or rather a breaking spell of some sort, because it wasn’t possible to directly counter an unknown spell.

  “Here,” said Wolf softly. “I’ll give you more magic to work with.”

  Aralorn didn’t see anything happen, but a moment later Kisrah swore and pulled a thick gold-and-ruby ring off his finger, tossing it into the snow. It must have been quite warm, as it fell quickly through to the ground, then melted a fair-sized hole around it that exposed the yellowed grass beneath.

  For Aralorn’s benefit, Wolf said, “He just broke the charisma spells—both of them.”

  Aralorn looked at the ring, seeing the magic imbued in it. “Both of them?”

  “Mine and my father’s.”

  Kisrah nodded, looking stunned as he stared at the ring. “Geoffrey gave me that ring. I can’t believe I didn’t see that it was runescribed. Why would he do that?”

  “My father,” observed Wolf, his hoarse voice sounding even
dryer than usual, “was very good at making people overlook things when he chose.”

  “The ring was runescribed?” asked Aralorn. She put her hands on her hips and glared at Wolf. “So mages do use rings and amulets for spells.”

  “Not for warding spells,” said Wolf repressively. “The runes are too complex to fit on an amulet—at least a warding that would keep out much more than errant mice.”

  “Ensorcelled,” said the Archmage, ignoring their by-play. “A charm spell, indeed, but to what purpose?”

  “What indeed?” said Wolf.

  “The ae’Magi spread his charisma spell over a fair bit of territory before he met his untimely end,” said Aralorn. “Why do you think everyone loved him so? Even people who’d barely heard of him.”

  Kisrah stared at her.

  “Who would ever think that the reason there were so few children in the villages around the ae’Magi’s castle was because the ae’Magi was killing them for the power he could get from untrained mages?” she said.

  “He ...” Kisrah’s voice trailed off, then became firmer. “He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. A rune set in a ring—maybe. But I felt the power you had to use, Cain. No one could keep a spell like that running for long over more than a few people.”

  “No one worries about charisma spells,” agreed Wolf. “They require too much power to be of use, and the control of the ae’Magi bars black magic anyway. Unless, of course, you are the ae’Magi and are perfectly willing to turn elsewhere for your power. There are a lot of spells that require too much power without death magic, sex magic, or, at the very least, blood, aren’t there? Some spells that haven’t been worked since the Wizard Wars.”

  Kisrah flinched.

  “He gave you such a spell to work, didn’t he?” asked Aralorn softly. “He gave you the proof, himself, that he knew . . . that he knows black magic.”

  She wasn’t going to tell Kisrah that they weren’t sure that it was Geoffrey who had been visiting his dreams.

  The Archmage looked up sharply.

  “I’ve had a few dreams, too,” she said. “Dreams of blood and magic.”

  “Yes.” His voice crackled like the ice under the horses’ hooves. “I set up part of the spell that holds the Lyon, plague take you both. I had to use black magic to do it.”

  “Why?” asked Wolf.

  “Shortly after Geoffrey disappeared, before anyone knew what might have happened to him, I awoke one night, and there he was, standing beside my bed. I was overjoyed at first, thinking that he was found—but then he told me he was one of the dreamwalking dead. He told me that you and your”—he glanced at Aralorn and changed the word he was going to use—“that you and Aralorn had killed him.”

  “Did he tell you how it was done?” asked Aralorn. Had Kisrah been given true dreams or false?

  “He said that you used one of the Smith’s weapons to destroy his magic and left him in the castle, which was full of Uriah, without defense.” Kisrah paused. “He asked me why I hadn’t helped him.” The wizard took in a deep breath, but his voice was unsteady when he continued. “I was there that night. I woke alone in the bedchamber with the body of the woman”—he glanced at Aralorn, his eyes hot with remembered fury—“the woman you killed with Cain’s staff. It was nigh on a quarter of an hour later when I felt Geoffrey’s grip on the Master Spells break. I could have saved him had I acted sooner.”

  The Archmage’s voice was taut with sorrow and rage. He was lost in his habitual opinion of Geoffrey ae’Magi, forgetting for the moment that he’d had any doubts about Geoffrey’s virtue.

  “Better that you didn’t,” said Aralorn, hoping to jolt him out of the remnant of the spell’s effect before he goaded himself into attacking them. It didn’t work.

  Kisrah’s eyes flashed with anger. “He was my friend, and you killed him.” He turned abruptly toward Wolf, his horse snorting at the sudden jerk on its bit. “I know you, Cain, I know what you have done. I’ve seen the color of the magic you wield, and it stinks of evil. Should I take your word about his character?”

  “Yet you worked black magic for Geoffrey ae’Magi yourself, didn’t you?” said Aralorn coldly, provoked by Kisrah’s verbal strike at Wolf. “Just as Cain did. Was it a goat you killed or a hen? Do you think that you are the purer for not having touched human blood? You know, of course, that Cain has done that, and you suspect he’s done more. You suspect that he’s killed, raped, tortured, and maimed. But don’t feel too superior—if we can’t break this spell within the next two weeks, my father will die. He will die because of your decision to play with black magic, because Geoffrey’s ghost taught you how to use death to gain power, more power than you might have had without resorting to black magic. When you wanted revenge, it was easy to overcome the scruples of a lifetime, wasn’t it? And you are a grown man who was taught right from wrong by people who loved you; not—”

  “Enough, Aralorn,” Wolf broke in gently.

  She bit back the words that might have wounded Wolf more than they hurt Kisrah. “Sorry,” she said.

  “No,” said Kisrah, mistakenly believing her apology was to him. “You’re right. About what I have done, and why.” He looked at Wolf. “That doesn’t mean that what you have done is right, only that I am guilty of similar actions.”

  Wolf shrugged when it became apparent that Kisrah was not going to speak further. “I have used no black magic since I left him; if you look, you will not find its touch on me. What I have done, I am responsible for—but for no more than that. As for accepting our word on the ae’Magi’s intentions, don’t be a fool.” Wolf bent down and picked up the ruby ring. “My father gave this to you. You know the spell it contained as well as I do—you broke it yourself. Why would my father need such a thing unless he was as we say?”

  “I would be a fool,” said Kisrah softly, ignoring the ring Wolf held for him, “if, having found my judgment questionable once, I leap without thought a second time. Give me time to think over what we have talked about. I knew Geoffrey for most of my life. He was more than just a mentor to me.” He flexed his hands on the reins. “The girl Aralorn killed the night you destroyed Geoffrey—her name was Amethyst, and she was not yet twenty years old.”

  “Do you remember”—Wolf’s rasp was so low that Aralorn could barely hear it over the wind—“that thing you came upon in the dungeons?”

  Kisrah shivered, but Aralorn thought it might have been from the cold; they had been standing for a while.

  “Yes,” said the Archmage. “I couldn’t sleep. It was dark, and I heard someone moving around in the cells, so I called a magelight and looked inside.”

  He swallowed heavily at the memory of what he’d seen. “The next thing I remember is you standing in front of me and my face hurt where you slapped me. ‘Screams only agitate it,’ you said. ‘It can’t get out.’ ”

  Kisrah’s lips twitched in something that might have been a faint smile. “Then you said, ‘It doesn’t like to eat sorcerers anyway—especially those without half the sense of a cooped chicken.’ ”

  Wolf said, “Two days before, that thing had been my father’s whore. I believe she was fifteen. A peasant, of course, and so of little account except for her beauty. Father liked beautiful things. He also liked to experiment. He showed you some of them. I believe you referred to them as my father’s ‘unfortunate hobbies.’ ”

  A myriad of expressions flittered across Kisrah’s face. Anger, disbelief . . . then dawning horror.

  “The night I met you in the ae’Magi’s castle,” said Aralorn quietly, “after you were unconscious, the girl you’d slept with sprouted fangs and claws. I suppose I could have just left rather than killing her: She was far more interested in eating you than me.”

  Kisrah didn’t say anything.

  Aralorn spread her hands to show they were empty, the universal sign of truce. “If you want to ride by yourself a bit—the horse knows the way back to the keep. We can leave you.”

  Kisrah hesitated, then nodde
d. “If you would, please. That might be best.”

  * * *

  “Well?” asked Aralorn.

  Wolf, who’d shifted in front of Kisrah into his four-footed form for travel, shook his head. “I don’t know. It depends upon which he loves best, my father or the truth.”

  He put on a brief burst of speed that precluded talk. Like Kisrah, she thought, he wanted a moment to himself.

  The wind had picked up again as they’d ridden back onto less sheltered ground. It was not enough to send her shrieking for cover, but it was a near thing. It spoke to her in a hundred whispers that touched her ears with bits and scraps of information directly out of her imagination.

  “Wolf?” she asked, when the sound grew too much.

  “Ump?”

  “Wizards have their specialties, right? Like the farseer who works for Ren.”

  “Ump.”

  A conversation takes two people, one of whom says something other than “Ump.” She thought about letting him be. His past was a sensitive topic, and she and Kisrah, between them, had all but beaten him over the head with it. The wind carried the sobs of a young child, bringing with the sound a hopeless loneliness that chilled her to the bone in an echo of her dreams of Wolf’s childhood. She tried again. She remembered a story about the gaze of the howlaa driving a man mad; too bad she hadn’t recalled that before she looked into its eyes.

  “What is Kisrah’s specialty?”

  “By the time a mage becomes a master, he has more than one area of expertise.”

  “You knew him before that,” she persisted. “What was his field?”

  “Moving things.”

  “Like translocation?” asked Aralorn.

  “Yes.” Wolf sighed heavily and slowed. “But he worked more with objects and delicate things—like picking locks or unbuckling saddle girths.”

  “No wonder Father likes him,” she observed, relieved that he’d decided to talk. “Saddle girths and horseshoes have lost as many battles as courage and skill have won. What was Nevyn’s specialty?”