“Aralorn. Which one are you?” he asked urgently.
The sound of his voice seemed to release Gerem from the howlaa’s hold, but instead of running, he took two steps forward.
Sensing Aralorn’s distraction, the howlaa chose that moment to close. It mewled as it ran, somehow a much more chilling sound than the roar of a bear or lion. Aralorn was forced to engage to keep it away from the two unarmed men.
She tried to leap on the howlaa’s back again, but her weakened shoulder betrayed her, and she stumbled at the last minute, rolling frantically under the beast. She thought later that the stumble had saved her life, for the great jaws just missed closing on her back.
Instead, the howlaa caught her with its paw instead, but it hadn’t had room to put much force behind the blow. It hurt, though, landing right on top of the bruises Falhart had left on her back that afternoon. The blow, relatively light as it was, sent her rolling farther under the howlaa.
While the howlaa scrambled to back away, where its size and power better offset her speed, Aralorn used her claws on the icy ground to gain her feet, then launched herself at the nearest vulnerable place she could find. Her fangs sank through the heavy coat that protected its ribs and into the howlaa’s side.
The howlaa shook itself wildly, trying to dislodge her, but it only succeeded in driving her teeth in deeper. Aralorn felt the throbbing of the glands beneath her eyeteeth as they pumped poison deep into the howlaa’s flesh. Unfortunately, it was too far from any major artery to kill swiftly.
The howlaa was almost as fast as the icelynx, and ten times its weight; it was only luck that had allowed her to last this long against it.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, the howlaa dropped to its side, crushing her beneath it. The weight of the howlaa kept her from breathing properly, and she grew dizzy with lack of air. A dull thud sounded in Aralorn’s ears, and the howlaa’s body heaved at the same time.
With a shriek of rage, the howlaa came to its feet, but it didn’t move as swiftly as it had before—neither did Aralorn, for that matter. The wind demon’s cry was answered with a stallion’s high-pitched scream as Sheen, called by Aralorn’s whistle, attacked the howlaa again, teeth bared and front feet flying. Relentless and fearless, the stallion drove the creature away from Aralorn.
On her feet again, Aralorn ran—or rather, hobbled—for her sword. She was glad that she’d been working with Halven, because she wasn’t altogether certain she could have shifted back to human form in the shape she was in without the extra potency that being better centered gave her. She’d done all the damage the lynx could manage; her right arm was too weak to maintain a four-footed attack. She hadn’t had time to take a close look at the damage the howlaa had done to her shoulder, and battle heat kept her from noticing the pain—but, considering the speed with which she had lost strength, she was afraid that it was worse than she had thought.
Exhaustion washed over her in waves as she completed her fourth shift. She noticed, almost absently, that Kisrah was struggling with Gerem and that there were other people in the stableyard now. She took Ambris in her good left hand and turned back to the fight.
A normal horse wouldn’t have stood a chance against such an opponent, but Sheen was war-trained and iron shod. His winter shoes were rough-bottomed like a file for better grip on ice and snow, and the damage they inflicted when propelled by a ton of battle-maddened stallion was not inconsiderable. He was canny, too, taking care to avoid the front end of the howlaa when he could.
Aralorn found the energy somewhere to run, keeping clear of Sheen’s line of attack. The horse sported a dark slash down his ribs, but in the darkness she couldn’t see how bad it was. Squealing, he spun and kicked with his hind legs, but missed because the howlaa collapsed abruptly. Both Aralorn and Sheen drew to a halt, watching the creature warily. Its ribs rose once, twice, then stopped.
The icelynx’s poison, thought Aralorn in relief, allowing her sword tip to drop.
“It’s all right, Sheen,” she crooned to the snorting stallion, knowing her voice would calm him faster than anything else. “It’s dead now.”
THIRTEEN
Wolf stood just inside the curtain of the bier room and wove a thin layer of darkness so that a casual observer would not see the light around the edges of the heavy fabric and realize that there was someone in the room with the Lyon. Green magic rose to his desire, if not his call, and the spell thickened with other magics to conceal his presence.
Wolf waited, but when the lingering magic dissipated and did not return, he took on human form, called his staff, and used it to light the room. He walked to the Lyon and ran his fingers lightly over the still face.
Aralorn had always laughed about how little she resembled the rest of the family, but Wolf could see the strong line of her jaw and the arrangement of her features in her father’s face. Take away the coloring and the size difference, and it was easy to tell that the Lyon was her sire. His skin was cool under Wolf’s touch.
“This is your last night of rest, my lord,” Wolf murmured aloud. “I hope your dreaming was pleasant.”
He took off his belt pouch and emptied the contents, mostly chalks, ink, and quills, on the bier next to the Lyon. It would take some time to set the spells that would undo the Lyon’s binding.
* * *
Aralorn walked around the howlaa’s body, murmuring a soft reassurance to her stallion. After a long moment, Sheen lost his battle stance and nuzzled her hard enough to knock her back several steps. She examined the cuts in his side and sighed with relief. They were shallow, and the bleeding was already slowing. He wouldn’t be carrying a saddle for several days, but she thought if the cuts were cleaned and doctored, that would be the worst of it.
Aralorn was torn between the dictates of a lifetime of training—tend to your horse first—and the knowledge that Gerem was still in danger. She compromised by turning Sheen into a small empty pen beside the stables and promising him better care as soon as she was done.
The wind had shifted direction, bringing the scent of the dead howlaa through the stables. Horses thumped and whinnied, bringing grooms running to stand gawking over the body of the howlaa.
Aralorn avoided them all and hurried to where Kisrah had Gerem pinned, picking up Ambris along the way and sheathing her.
“He’s been trying for his knife,” said Kisrah, as soon as she was within conversation range. “Seeing how anxious he was to go for the howlaa, I thought the knife might be an equally bad idea.”
“Can you hold him for a bit more?” she asked. “I’ll go for Nevyn.”
Kisrah looked relieved. “Good thought. Nevyn’s a dreamwalker. He will know how to help your brother. I’ll enlist one of the stableboys—who seem to be finally figuring out something is going on out here—and take him up to Nevyn’s rooms if you’ll go ahead of us and tell him what to expect.”
“Right,” said Aralorn, not bothering to address Kisrah’s assumption that Nevyn was the cure rather than the cause for Gerem’s condition. Kisrah had, by saving her brother, provided her satisfactory proof that he wasn’t involved any deeper than he had claimed. Gerem would be safe with Kisrah.
She left them there, pushing herself to run though her shoulder protested the pounding gait. She had to go the long way around on her own human feet; she couldn’t jump back through the window in human form, and she wasn’t up to any more shapeshifting for a while.
As she had hoped, Kisrah had come out the nearest side door—one that was usually kept bolted, so at least she didn’t have to run halfway around the keep. She heard a few people stirring, awakened by the commotion by the stable, but she didn’t see anyone as she came upon the door to her rooms.
She should stop and get Wolf for backup. She stopped before the door and put a hand on it. Wolf could handle Nevyn if Aralorn couldn’t persuade him with her words.
Unfortunately, she was under no illusion about what Wolf would do to anyone who tried to hurt her. If she gave him some ti
me to cool down, to understand—if there was something to understand—then he would act as reason dictated. But in the heat of the initial discovery . . . it was safer for everyone if she went at this alone.
She took her hand off the door and continued on.
Nevyn and Freya had rooms a floor above the hall where she’d found Gerem. Aralorn didn’t bother to knock as she walked in.
The first thing she saw was Freya sleeping soundly on the bed, her peaceful features revealed by the flickering light of the fireplace.
The sound of the door opening hadn’t disturbed Nevyn either: He was waiting for her in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace from the bed. The firelight illuminated one side of his face clearly, while the other lay in shadows.
“I thought you might come,” he said softly. Then, seeing her glance at her sleeping sister, he said, “Don’t worry, she’s sleeping until morning.”
The sound of his voice sent a chill of unease coursing through her veins. Nevyn spoke Rethian with a thick Darranian accent she’d never heard him use.
“Let Gerem go, Nevyn,” she said.
“You aren’t beautiful,” he said, as if she had never spoken at all. “What magic do you work that holds a man to you like that? Ten years, and the thought of seeing you was more important than punishing him for killing Geoffrey. Geoffrey, who was my teacher, my creator—giving me life and understanding when Nevyn would have seen me dead.”
“Punishing Wolf?” she asked.
He nodded jerkily. Even in the dimly lit room, Aralorn could see the flush that swept up his cheeks as he abruptly leaned forward, every muscle in his body tightening. His voice, in stark contrast to his posture, was soft and slow. “How could you take up with him? We waited and waited for you to come home. Then Geoffrey died, and I found out you’d taken his killer as your lover.”
“How did you find out?” she asked.
Nevyn took a deep breath in through his nose. “Geoffrey told me when he told me that Cain killed him. Cain is evil, don’t you understand?”
He could have found out about her relationship with Cain while he was dreamwalking, she thought.
“Cain did not kill Geoffrey,” Aralorn told him. “What he knows about black magic, Geoffrey taught him—as he taught you.”
Nevyn shook his head. “No. Geoffrey was good. He helped me. It was Cain . . . in the night while Nevyn slept. I saw—I saw it all. Night after night, he called me to perform for me and to teach me . . . I showed you it all, I gave you dreams so that you would know what he was. What I did.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What he forced me to do.”
“I don’t remember,” she said. “I only dreamed of Wolf.” But after she said it, she wondered if it was really true. The story, Nevyn’s story, had come to her so completely while she was riding back from Ridane’s temple—could she have come up with it from some half-remembered dreams?
“You only kept dreams of him,” said Nevyn, his voice dark and ugly. “You’re just a shapeshifting, magic-tainted whore. I’ve told him and told him, but he loves you. Loves you when he hates his magic, hates me because he can’t quit using his magic, can’t give me up altogether.”
He laughed slyly. “But you ruined it the first time he saw the two of you together. It took him a long time to realize that your wolf was Cain—but then, Nevyn was always a little slow.”
“You are Nevyn,” she said, but he ignored her.
“He sent the howlaa then, on impulse. Then he worried and worried until it was killed. Stupid sod forgot that he needs Cain to free the Lyon. If the Lyon is harmed, he’ll never believe it wasn’t his fault.”
“You knew enough about black magic to set the spell,” she said, changing the subject, because it didn’t seem helpful to try to argue with this shade of Nevyn about Nevyn’s guilt or innocence. “Why can’t you unwork it yourself?”
“If he’d succeeded in killing Cain, I could tell Nevyn enough about it to work the spell—but he’d never be able to do it. No stomach for it, I’m afraid. Kisrah might do it, but he doesn’t love the Lyon enough.” He sounded both amused and exasperated.
“Why try to kill Gerem?” asked Aralorn.
“The spell needs a human death,” he said. “Gerem is already tainted by magic, and I needed someone whom Nevyn could see dead. I couldn’t leave the choice to Cain. But I don’t need Gerem anymore.” As he spoke the last word, he came up out of the chair and struck with the sword that he’d held in the shadows.
She saw his intention in his face an instant before he moved, so she threw herself backward, and his blade missed.
Swords, she thought as she stumbled to catch her balance. Plague it, why does it always have to be swords? She dodged another slice as she pulled Ambris.
It was obvious from the first blow who the better swordsman was, and it wasn’t Aralorn. He had been good when she left, and he obviously hadn’t quit practicing. He might even give Wolf a run for his money. She caught the edge of his blade on Ambris and let it slide off.
Even if she’d been able to use her good arm, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. Even if she’d been an excellent swordswoman, she would have had a problem: She was using Ambris. She didn’t want to hurt Nevyn at all—she certainly didn’t want to steal his magic. She wasn’t certain that was what would happen—Nevyn wasn’t trying for godhood as Geoffrey had been. But that was the trouble with ancient artifacts—no one really knew what they did.
There was a game she knew, one her uncle taught her, called Taefil Ma Deogh, Steal the Dragon. Strategy and skill were necessary, but it was deviousness that determined who won and who lost. The last time Aralorn stayed with her mother’s people, she had beaten her uncle eight times out of ten.
Devious, she thought, parrying furiously. Do the unexpected.
She turned and ran—out the door, down the hall to the nearest empty room, and through the doorway. The room was dark, which suited Aralorn just fine. She slid Ambris into a tall, narrow vase, where she wouldn’t be immediately obvious.
Nevyn’s sprinting footsteps were almost at the door as she gathered herself together for another shapechange. She was too weak, too many changes with too little rest between.
Gasping a little, she centered herself and tried again. Pain seared her from toes to fingertips, but as his form appeared in the doorway, she slipped into the shape of a mouse. She huddled just behind the door as he came into the room, called a magelight, and looked briefly around. She waited until he left, then scampered out the door and back to his bedroom.
* * *
Wolf finished the last of the painstakingly drawn ink lines on the Lyon’s face. When he was through, he looked over all of his work carefully, for he wouldn’t get a second chance. Satisfied that all was in order, he took out his knife. He should sever the bond he shared with Aralorn before he started, but the chances were too great that she’d find him before he was done. He had to wait until the last moment.
He slid the sharp blade sideways across one wrist. Touching the tip of a fresh quill pen into the dark liquid that pooled in his wound, he began painstakingly retracing the inked lines with blood.
* * *
In Nevyn’s room, Aralorn shifted once more to human shape, shaking and shuddering when she was done. If she survived this night, it would be days before she could do so much as light a candle with magic.
She could hear him searching for her, quick footsteps, doors opening quietly. Her heart settled; the sweat dried; and, after a few moments, the pain of overusing her magic receded except for a nagging headache.
She found a likely ambush spot, just inside his door. She was counting on him to believe she would have gone for help rather than come back to face him on her own.
He neared the door, making no attempt at stealth, and Aralorn breathed as silently as she could. He walked in confidently; his first glance fell to the bed. That was all the opening she needed.
With a war cry designed to make him start, she leapt to his back and wrapped one arm
around his neck and grabbed the elbow of her opposite arm. This locked the bones of her forearms against the arteries that carried blood to his brain. The mercenaries called it a “nighty-night,” and, if she could hold it for a count of fifteen, Nevyn should drop unconscious. The first five counts would be the telling ground because after that, he would get weaker fast. Surprise counted for two, then he slammed her against the edge of the door.
She held on, ignoring the pain for the moment, though she knew that she was going to have a vertical bruise to go with the horizontal one Falhart had given her with his quarterstaff. The second time Nevyn slammed her back, it hurt worse because he managed to catch her howlaa-wounded shoulder on the door, so she bit his ear to distract him. He tried to twist away and stumbled, which would have been all right except that it gave him an idea that she would rather he not have thought of.
He threw himself backward on the floor, and the air left her lungs with a faint hint of protest.
Twelve, she thought.
He managed to bring his shoulders up and smash her head onto the floor.
Fourteen, plague it, go to sleep.
He repeated his previous move with such success that Aralorn was starting to feel woozy herself. Luckily, it was the last one he made.
Lying under him, she waited to catch her breath before sending Nevyn into a more lasting sleep with the dregs of her magic. She’d never have been able to do it with him awake.
Should have just hit him over the head, she thought when she was finished, and touched her bottom lip gently with her tongue to inspect that damage he’d wrought with the back of his head, so there’s a chance I’d have killed him. I could have lived with that.
“Aralorn?”
Nevyn’s body blocked her view of the door, but she knew Kisrah’s voice.
“I suspect she’s under him somewhere, but she’s small enough that it might take us a while to find her,” observed Gerem a bit shakily.
“Ha-ha,” she said coldly. “Never tease a person who knows enough about you for blackmail.”
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