The great hall was deathly quiet, and Aralorn was able to drop her voice to a whisper that echoed—a trick of tone and architecture she’d discovered a long time ago.
“Tam could not have done it, but Nastriut’s reputation was such that Fargus’s mages left the battlefield to help. Over a hundred mages pooled their magic to create a desert of obsidian glass to contain the Dreamer their blood magic had brought into being. Nastriut died in the doing—and he was not alone. The rest of the wizards vowed never to use black magic again upon pain of death. To ensure that this promise was kept, they placed upon themselves a spell that allowed their magic to be controlled by one man—the first ae’Magi, Tam of Hallenvale.”
“A pretty tale to cover the wizards’ stupidity,” said Gerem abruptly. “It was abuse of magic that created the glass desert, not some heroic effort to save the world.”
Aralorn smiled at him. “I only tell the tale as it was told to me. You can judge it true or false if you wish. It won’t change the results.”
“The destruction of a dozen kingdoms,” he said.
“You’ve been listening to your teachers.” Aralorn smiled her approval. “But there were other results as well. The wizards were vulnerable, most of them trained to use magic in a way that was forbidden them. Now the people feared them and killed them wherever they found them. For generations, a mageborn child was killed as soon as it was recognized. Only in Reth or Southwood could wizards find sanctuary.”
Aralorn surveyed her audience, child and adult alike. “If you wonder if this story is true, ask the Archmage what the first words of the wizard’s oath are, the oath every apprentice must make to his master since the ae’Magi was set over the mages at the end of the Wizard Wars.”
“Ab earum satimon,” said Kisrah. He frowned thoughtfully at Aralorn, then translated softly, “To protect our dreams. Where did you hear this story? I have never heard it before. I thought the glass desert was a mistake caused by a clash of magic gone wild and out of control.”
“I told it to her,” said Nevyn, stepping out from a doorway. “It’s an old tale I heard somewhere—though Aralorn has improved upon it.”
Aralorn nodded gravely in acknowledgment of the compliment as she rose from her seat. “I have heard several variations of the story since. Lord Kisrah, you wanted to see my father?”
“One more story, before you go?” asked Falhart. “Something less . . . dark, if you would? I don’t know about anyone else, but I’d rather not spend the night trying to convince my children that there is nothing lurking in the shadows.”
Aralorn glanced down at Wolf, who was lying on his side being patted by small hands, his eyes closed. It was unusually tolerant of him. In his human form, he avoided people’s hands, other than her own, altogether. The wolf was less shy, but she wondered if he was really asleep. If so, a few minutes more could only help him.
She gave Falhart a challenging look. “No more comments about my height?”
He raised his right hand. “I swear.”
She glanced at Kisrah.
“I can wait,” he said.
Aralorn resumed her seat. “All right, let’s see what I can come up with. Hmm. Yes.”
She waited for it to quiet down, then began. “Not so very long ago, and not so far away, there lived a sorcerer’s apprentice named Pudge. As you might expect from his name, he enjoyed nothing so much as a nice soft pudding, except perhaps a piece of cake. He especially liked it when the sorcerer’s cook would try to cover up the fact that his cake had fallen by filling in the hole with sugary frosting this thick.” Aralorn held up two fingers together and watched a smile cross the face of one of Falhart’s brood at the thought of such a delicacy.
“Now, Pudge’s master had several apprentices who teased him about his eating. They might have meant it kindly—but you and I know that doesn’t matter. It got so that Pudge would take whatever sweet he happened to thieve from the kitchen and eat it in secret places where the others wouldn’t find him.
“His favorite was a little cubby he’d found in the library. The passage was so small and insignificant that even if the sorcerer had remembered it, he would never have used it. It was, in fact, so narrow that only a child could squeeze though the long tunnel that led to a comfortably cozy ledge on the side of the sorcerer’s castle several stories above the ground.
“As the months passed, and the cook’s sugary treats took their toll, the passage grew tighter and tighter, until Pudge began to wonder if there wasn’t some kind of shrinking spell laid upon it.
“ ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘perhaps, it once was a normal sort of hall and every day it gets smaller and smaller.’
“It was an idea he found pleasing, though he found no mention of such a spell in any of the books he was allowed to delve into. I might mention here that Pudge was quite an adept little sorcerer in his own right. Had he been of a different temperament, the other apprentices might have truly regretted their teasing.
“One bright and sunny morning, the cook made little cherry tarts, each just large enough to fit into one of Pudge’s hands. Nobody makes a better thief than a boy—just ask the Traders, if you don’t believe me. Nobody, that is, except a sorcerer. Pudge came out of the kitchen with twelve cherry tarts, and he scrambled to the library before the cook realized they were gone.
“He opened the passage and managed to squeeze in, though he had to push the pies, stored in a knapsack he used for such nefarious missions, ahead of him in order to fit. It was really only the thought of the cook’s ire that made him fight and struggle through the passage. The cook was a man after Pudge’s own heart, but he had a terrible temper and was best avoided for a while after a successful raid.
“At last, Pudge was safely through the passage and out on his ledge. He ate eleven of the tarts and shared the twelfth with a few passing birds. Then he decided it was time to go back.” Aralorn paused.
“He couldn’t get back,” said a young boy seated near the back of the group.
“Why not?” asked Aralorn, raising her brows.
“Because he was too big!” chorused a series of voices (some of which were bass or baritone).
Aralorn smiled and nodded. “You’re right, of course. It took several days before Pudge was thin enough to get back through the passage, and by that time, his master was getting really worried. Upon hearing of Pudge’s adventures, the sorcerer taught Pudge a spell or two to help him get out of tight places.” She waited for a moment to let the chuckles die down. “Over the years Pudge grew in both girth and power. You might know him better by his real name—Tenneten the Large, own mage to King Myr, current ruler of Reth.” She stood up briskly and made a shooing motion. “All right, that’s all for the night. Correy, if you could spare a moment?”
Correy approached her, with Kisrah somewhat behind him, as the children shuffled off to their respective parents.
“What did you need?” asked her brother.
“Hmm, well, you know that old vacant cottage where the hermit used to live? In the clearing, not too far from here?”
“The one Hart fell through the roof of when he was pretending he was a dragon?”
Surprised, she nodded. “That was well before your time.”
“Some things become family legends,” he replied. “Besides, the knowledge he gained reroofing the cottage came in useful when Father sent us to build a house for Ridane’s priestess to live in.”
“Ah,” she said, wondering why her father was building houses for the death goddess’s priestess. Guessing why he sent his sons to do it was easier—the Lyon liked to make certain his children knew as many skills as possible. He also liked to keep them humble. “Well, in any case, you need to send someone there to take care of a rather large carcass we left. It might attract some predators, and it’s near some good winter pasture.”
Correy nodded. “I saw that your wolf is missing some hide. Run into a bear?”
Aralorn coughed, glanced at Kisrah, who was listening in, an
d said, “Something of the sort, yes.” There is nothing more disastrous than allowing your opponents to overestimate your abilities: Killing legendary monsters almost always led to that very thing.
“I’ll see to it,” he said. “Good night, Featherweight.”
She reached way up and managed to ruffle his hair. “Good night, Blue-eyes.”
Correy laughed and kissed her cheek.
“Good night, sir,” he told Kisrah with a friendly nod.
Kisrah waited until Correy had gone. “Blue-eyes?” he asked.
If they’d been friends, she would have laughed; she satisfied herself with lifting an eyebrow instead. “Because they are not, of course.”
He nodded seriously. “Of course. I compliment you on your storytelling.”
She shrugged, rubbing her fingers into the soft fur behind Wolf’s ears. “It’s a hobby of mine to collect odd tales. Some of them have even come in handy a time or two. Come, I’ll take you to the bier room.”
She set off across the great hall, which had largely emptied of people. She didn’t look behind her, but she could hear the rustle of the Archmage’s cloak and the click of Wolf’s nails on the hard floor.
Before they reached the curtain, Kisrah stopped walking. Aralorn stopped and looked at him inquiringly.
“Do you think that the only reason black magic was abandoned was this beast in your story?”
“The Dreamer? I’m not certain that the Dreamer ever existed,” replied Aralorn. “There’s a less dramatic version of the story in which Tam himself creates the Dreamer in order to stop the general use of black magic. I am a green mage, my lord ae’Magi: I don’t need to eat rotten meat to know that it is tainted. Blood magic . . . is as foul-smelling as a raw roast left out for a couple of days in the sun.”
“Ah,” said Kisrah. He frowned at her intently and changed the subject smoothly. “Did you kill the ae’Magi?”
“Geoffrey?” she asked, as if there had been a dozen Archmages killed in the last few years.
“Yes.”
Aralorn folded her arms and leaned against the cold stone wall. Wolf settled at her feet with a sigh, though he kept a steady eye on Kisrah. The Archmage ignored him.
“The Uriah killed Geoffrey,” she said softly. “Poor tormented creatures he, himself, created.” Then she forced herself to relax and continue lightly. “At least that’s what the mercenaries who were hired to clean up the castle reported.”
“He had no trouble controlling them before,” said Kisrah. “I’ve used the spells myself—they were neither difficult nor draining. And, Aralorn, despite what your friend, the wizard who gave you that amulet”—not one of her better stories, she admitted—“told you, Geoffrey didn’t create the Uriah, just summoned them to do his bidding. I think that you have been misled.”
She shrugged. She’d learned her lesson; she didn’t argue with someone who might still be under the influence of the late ae’Magi’s spells.
“You were there that night,” he said. “I saw you.”
“And if I say I killed him,” asked Aralorn in a reasonable tone, “what then? You will kill me as well to even the score?”
“No,” he said hoarsely. “My word of honor that I will not. Nor will I tell anyone else what you say to me. I believe I know who did the killing, but I need . . . I need to be certain.”
Why? she thought to herself. So you can justify the black magic used to hold my father as bait to trap Wolf?
“How could I, a second-rate swordswoman and a third-rate green mage, do such a thing to the ae’Magi?” She indulged herself a bit more than was strictly safe, though she was careful that he would not hear the sarcasm in her voice. “Everyone knows how powerful a sorcerer he was—and a swordsman of the highest ability. Why would I want to kill him? He was the kindest, most tenderhearted—not to mention amusing—sorcerer I have ever met. His death was a great tragedy.”
Second-rate swordswoman, but first-rate actress; Aralorn knew that Kisrah could only hear the sincerity in her voice. It was the sort of addlepated garbage everyone said about the last ae’Magi and meant in its absurd, simplistic whole—thanks to the ae’Magi’s charisma spell, which lingered even now. If she hadn’t accused Geoffrey of creating the Uriah, she thought, she might have persuaded Kisrah of her innocence in the Archmage’s death.
Kisrah frowned at her. “You were there that night. Wielding a mage’s staff ...” He hesitated a bare instant, but obviously decided he might as well push all the way. “Wielding Cain’s staff—it is very distinctive.”
She wouldn’t help him convict Wolf. Aralorn gave Kisrah a puzzled look. “I was there that night, but I don’t recall any staff. I sometimes run messages for the Spymaster. When the Uriah started acting strangely, I left as soon as I could. I’m not a coward, but those things scare me. Look what they did to the ae’Magi.”
Kisrah stared at her; she could almost taste his frustration. “The Uriah captured you for him. He had me translocate you to his castle. What did he want from you?”
Aralorn shrugged and modified her story without a pause. “A misunderstanding, I’m afraid. He thought that I had some knowledge of the whereabouts of King Myr. You remember that was about the time Myr, distraught over his parents’ deaths, left without telling anyone where he had gone. It turns out that King Myr visited a healer, who lives quietly in the mountains near the king’s summer residence.” Without a qualm, she stuck to the official story. If it became widely known that Myr and the ae’Magi were enemies . . . it might confuse a lot of Myr’s followers who were still under the influence of the previous ae’Magi. Perhaps time would solve that—perhaps not. “I actually did know where he was, but was told not to tell anyone—you know how the Spymaster is. The ae’Magi didn’t intend any harm to him, obviously, but orders are orders. The ae’Magi eventually accepted that I couldn’t tell him anything.”
Storytelling did come in handy sometimes, Aralorn reflected. Take a grain of truth and embellish it with nonsense, and it was more believable than what had actually happened. It wasn’t as if she really expected Kisrah to believe her anyway; she just wanted to keep him from deciding what had happened with any certainty.
Wolf whined, and it echoed weirdly in the stone-enclosed corridor. Maybe he was worried about how much storytelling she was doing this night. Probably he was right.
“Shall we go, Lord Kisrah? Or would you like to put me to the question? I’m certain Father has some old thumb-screws around here somewhere.”
The Archmage stared at her as if the intensity of his gaze alone would be enough to pick through the tale she’d woven. His expression was as far removed from the charming man of his public image as Wolf was from a sheep. The pink wig looked like the absurd camouflage it was. He looked very tired, she thought suddenly—as if he had spent more than one sleepless night lately.
“No doubt,” he said tautly, “torture would get another answer out of you, equally plausible and equally false.”
Aralorn smiled pleasantly at him; it wasn’t difficult—few things gave her greater pleasure than frustrating someone else’s attempt to gain information. “No doubt,” she agreed congenially.
“Sometimes,” he said with absolute conviction, “I wish there were a truth spell that really worked. Lead on, then, by all means,” he said with a sigh, abruptly shifting back to the harmless dandy. “I would take a look at this spell that holds your father.”
The guard had returned to his duty.
“Lord Kisrah is here to take a look at Father,” she told him.
“Of course, Lady. Should I remain here, or would you like more privacy?”
Aralorn looked to the Archmage, who shrugged his indifference.
“Stay here,” she said to the guard. “I’d rather not have any curious souls wander in while the ae’Magi is here.”
“Yes, Lady.” The guard smiled.
“The wardings are different,” said Lord Kisrah, examining the curtains.
Aralorn shrugged and dispelled
her wards. “It was a onetime warding amulet. These wards are mine.”
He opened the curtain and passed through, murmuring without looking at her. “The wardings were Cain’s work—I know it well. I’ve never heard of talismans of warding.”
She was not so easily won from her chosen story. She merely raised her eyebrow at him. “I had not heard of bane-shades before today. Isn’t it wonderful that we may learn throughout our lifetimes. I assure you that the only ones here when the wardings were drawn were my wolf and I. You have your choice of mages.” She gestured to Wolf, who whined and wagged his tail gently. No human mage could manage to stay in an animal form as long as Wolf had tonight. That Cain ae’Magison was something other than purely human was something his father had kept quiet.
Kisrah spared her a brief glare before continuing into the room. She lit a magelight as she followed him in, but he lit his own as well. Obviously, she thought with amusement, he didn’t trust her. Smart man.
She tugged the curtain shut behind her, stopping just inside the alcove, where she could see the sorcerer without interfering with his magic.
Like Wolf, he placed a hand on her father’s forehead and made a gesture that looked somewhat similar. Watching him closely, Aralorn saw the Archmage’s full lips tighten with some emotion or perhaps just the effort he put into the spell. When he was done, he stepped back for a moment, then began another spell.
At Aralorn’s side, Wolf stiffened and took a swift step forward, crouching slightly. Aralorn felt a swift rush of fear; had she trusted too much to her knowledge of this man?
In spite of her suspicions, she really didn’t believe he would actually harm her father. His reputation aside, Aralorn had access to more rumors than a cat had kittens, and she’d never heard a word to indicate he was dishonorable; and someone had taken great care to keep from harming her father. She knew too much about magic to make the mistake of interrupting Kisrah, but she watched him narrowly and trusted Wolf to stop it if need be.
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