Wolfsbane

by Patricia Briggs

  “The only time that I saw them, they were in the ae’Magi’s grimoire in the vault in the library.”

  “They are no longer there. If you find them—”

  “I’ll bring them to you. It’s not rogue wizards that bother me; it’s what will happen if everyone realizes you no longer control them.”

  “Witch hunts,” agreed Kisrah grimly.

  Wolf nodded. “I’ll look out for them, but don’t be surprised if I don’t find them. Father wasn’t the only wizard who dabbled in the black arts—I know there were at least two others. It would be worth their lives to keep them from you.”

  Kisrah swore heatedly. “I hadn’t thought of that. Who are they?”

  Wolf shrugged. “I don’t know their names, and they kept their faces hidden. Do you still have the other half of the spells?”

  Kisrah nodded. “We hid them as soon as it was clear that something had happened to Geoffrey’s.”

  “I’ll look,” promised Wolf again, then turned away from the ae’Magi.

  “Cain,” Kisrah said.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  Wolf swept him a low bow before heading briskly out of the gardens. He would look, but he suspected the spells were long gone, maybe destroyed. Not entirely a bad thing, he decided after a while. Geoffrey ae’Magi could not have been the only ae’Magi who used them for other than their intended purposes, otherwise there wouldn’t be so many black grimoires left after ten centuries.

  He had a library to visit with more urgent business. More than he needed his father’s books, he needed a quiet place.

  Aralorn waited until Gerem and Nevyn followed the other mages out the door before turning to the chicken in the crate.

  “Coming out, Halven?” she asked.

  The hen let out a startled squawk.

  She pulled the lid off the crate and shook her head. “Don’t give me that. If you wanted to remain anonymous, you could have made your clucks less pointed. Otherwise, I’d never have thought to check to see if the chicken was really a chicken. I never have been able to switch from one sex to the other.”

  The hen jumped to the top of the crate and landed on the floor as her uncle—this time in the form of a tall red-headed man wearing the clothes of one of the Trader Clans. “Having you around makes spying much more interesting,” he said, sounding pleased.

  “What would you have done if he’d been ready to unwork the spell and tried to sacrifice you?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I wouldn’t have let him slit my throat, but I was pretty sure that he’d want to consider the spells for a while.”

  “Be that as it may, I for one am glad you’re here. How much do you know about human magic?”

  Halven raised his eyebrows. “Less than Wolf, I imagine.”

  “He’s busy—and I’m not certain that it’s something I want to discuss with him right now. Just how powerful would a dreamwalker have to be in order to control a howlaa?”

  “Ah, dreamwalking is not just a human talent, and I do know a little something about it.” He scratched his chin. “Howlaas are magical creatures, much more difficult to influence than a half-fledged boy like Gerem. Dreamwalking is more common among us than among the humans, but we don’t tend to be nearly as powerful. I know two dreamwalkers; only one of them can dreamspeak. We don’t even have stories of dreamwalkers who can influence others the way Gerem was, except for the—what was it you called it? Ah yes, the Dreamer.”

  “Now you’ve heard the whole story of the spell on the Lyon. Do you still think that a dead dreamwalker couldn’t do this?”

  “Maybe one could,” he said. “Kisrah and Nevyn’s part, yes. I am less certain of whoever held your brother in thrall—I’d think that would take a fair bit of power. The howlaa? I just don’t see how a dead man would have the power to do that. But I haven’t talked to any dead dreamwalkers to be certain of it.”

  “Maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “I should go talk to someone who knows more about dead people.”

  The wind was gusty as Aralorn took the path to the temple, but it didn’t bother her as much today. Perhaps her lessons on centering helped her to block the voices more effectively, or else the ability was fading with time. She rather hoped for the latter.

  The temple doors stood open, so she rode directly there, dismounted, and left Sheen standing outside.

  “Tilda?” she called softly. The room appeared deserted, though by no means empty. In spite of the open door, it was warm inside, but there was no sign of a fire. She shivered and backed out of the temple, closing the doors carefully behind her.

  Leading Sheen toward the little cottage, she told him, “I don’t know why that should unnerve me when I run around with wizards and shapechangers, but it does.”

  There was a hitching post in front of the cottage, and Aralorn dropped Sheen’s reins beside it.

  “Be good,” she said, and patted him on the shoulder before taking the shoveled path to the door of the cottage.

  “Enter,” bade a cheerful voice when she knocked. “I’m in the kitchen, baking.”

  Sure enough, when Aralorn opened the door, the smell of warm yeast billowed out.

  “It’s me, Aralorn.” She followed the smell to find Tilda up to her elbows in bread dough. “I see I caught you working.”

  Tilda laughed. “Shh. Don’t tell. A priestess is supposed to stand around and look mysterious.”

  “That’s all right, I generally get plenty of mysterious. Speaking of which, the temple door was opened. I shut it before I came here.”

  Tilda smiled. “Well then, we both welcome you here.”

  “Thank you,” said Aralorn with what aplomb she’d managed to develop running around with Wolf. “I came because I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Me or the priestess?”

  Aralorn shrugged. “Whichever one can answer my questions. Geoffrey ae’Magi is dead, right?”

  “Yes,” Tilda answered without hesitation. “Ridane sometimes tells me when significant people die.”

  Aralorn let out a harsh breath of relief. She’d been pretty sure of it, but hearing it was better. She could deal with him dead—it was the living Geoffrey who had scared the courage out of her. “A great many people, including the current ae’Magi, are convinced that his spirit is dreamwalking around Lambshold. Is that possible?”

  “Dreamwalking?” Tilda stopped kneading her bread and looked thoughtful. “I don’t know.” She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.

  Something stirred in the air. It wasn’t magic, but it was like enough to it that Aralorn could feel it drift through her and wrap itself about the priestess.

  When Tilda opened her eyes, the pupil filled her iris, making her eyes appear almost black. “No,” she said. “There are a few ghosts in the area, old things for the most part. But nothing strong enough to influence the living.”

  Aralorn nodded slowly. “That’s what I needed to know. Thank you.” She turned to go.

  “Wait,” said the priestess. “There is something ...”

  “Yes?”

  Tilda stared at her bread for a moment before looking up. She was pale as milk, and her pupils were contracted as if she stood in the noonday sun rather than in a cozy but rather dim cottage. “If you are not very careful and very clever, there will be several more deaths soon.”

  “I am always clever,” responded Aralorn, with more humor than she felt. “Careful, we may have to work around.” Tilda still looked upset, so Aralorn added, “I know that there is danger. It should not take me long to discover what has been happening these last few weeks. Once I know that—I’ll know what can be done.”

  “Ridane says that the web is spun, and one person at Lambshold will die no matter what you do.”

  Aralorn had not dealt with gods much, but she was a firm believer in writing her own future. She was not about to let Ridane decide the fate of her family and friends. “I’ll do what I can. Thank you, Tilda. You’ve helped a great
deal.”

  Nevyn, she thought as she mounted Sheen. It is Nevyn.

  The stallion snorted and sidled and generally kept her attention until they were well on their way back to Lambshold. As she’d listened to Gerem’s story, she had known it wasn’t Geoffrey. If Geoffrey had known that there was a mage of Gerem’s potential, untrained, at Lambshold, he would have moved mountains to get to him—untrained mages gave him so much more power than trained mages. So Geoffrey hadn’t known about Gerem before he died. And, as a dead man seeking revenge, he would not have used Gerem to do his work—he’d have used Anasel. Surely a doddering old man who had been a great mage would have been a better target. But Nevyn avoided Anasel as he avoided most of the mageborn if he could. If he needed two other mages to help him, it would be Kisrah and Gerem. But Nevyn would never hurt her father.

  One of Aralorn’s greatest talents as a spy, other than being able to turn into a mouse, was her ability to take a few bits of knowledge and knit them into a whole story.

  Kisrah told her that Nevyn was a dreamwalker.

  Kisrah had long been a favorite of the ae’Magi’s and spent a lot of time at the ae’Magi’s castle.

  Nevyn, who’d already suffered from being a mageborn Darranian, had been first apprenticed to a wizard who had abused him. That wizard, though powerful, had a bad enough reputation that the ae’Magi had never associated with him willingly.

  Those were the facts she had. It was enough for an experienced storyteller to work out the probabilities.

  She saw in her head that boy, wary and nervous, taken by his new master to the ae’Magi’s castle. Abused children try to protect themselves any way they can. They hide, they try to please their abuser, they use their magic. Santik had not been a dreamwalker; certainly his apprentice would have used his talent to spy upon him to try to stay safe. Perhaps dreamwalking to watch his master had already been a habit when he’d gone into Kisrah’s care.

  Kisrah would certainly have taken his new apprentice to the ae’Magi to see if Geoffrey had suggestions on how to handle the boy. Like Kisrah himself, Nevyn had had the promise of power, and Geoffrey would never have let such a wizard in his presence without ensuring that he, too, was caught up in the charisma spell. Maybe Nevyn had a ring like Kisrah’s or some other bit of jewelry, given to him by the ae’Magi.

  She wondered how long it had been before Nevyn, dreamwalking, had first spied upon the ae’Magi. Because once he had been abused, he certainly would have had trouble believing in the goodness of those assigned to his care. Spying on Kisrah would have caused him no harm. But the ae’Magi . . . Even Kisrah, an adult, had been torn by the discrepancy between how he felt about Geoffrey because of the charisma spell and what he witnessed at the ae’Magi’s castle. And Kisrah hadn’t seen half of it. Wolf had—and Aralorn would have bet that Nevyn had as well.

  Ah, gods, she thought. The poor boy.

  Sheen guided himself for a bit while she dropped her reins to wipe at her eyes. He shook his head when she drew the reins taut again.

  That first time, she thought, how old was Nevyn the first time? What did he see?

  She’d seen Geoffrey kill children, had seen a man she knew in the face of a shambling Uriah, had seen a woman who turned into a flesh-eating thing—and she’d only been around the last ae’Magi for weeks, not years. Wolf had experienced worse—and so, she was certain, had Nevyn. All the while he’d been defenseless, caught up by the ae’Magi’s spell that bound him to think that the Archmage was the best, most wonderful of good men.

  Each thread of the story flowed worse than the last.

  Spying on the ae’Magi would have allowed Nevyn access to black magic. Geoffrey was a dreamwalker, too. Had he known that Nevyn was spying?

  Of course he had, she thought. How could he not? Geoffrey had been as powerful as only a black mage who was also the Archmage could be. Had he compared them, Wolf and Nevyn, as he taught them both things children should never have to know? Nausea curled in her belly. It would have given him great pleasure to have them both, she thought, one boy who fought him and one who had already been taught to please an abusive master and now had one he was forced to love.

  Nevyn would have been fully under the influence of the ae’Magi’s magic. Knowing that the ae’Magi was wonderful and seeing the horrors he committed. What had that done to Nevyn?

  “Aralorn!” bellowed Falhart from the stable door as she rode up. “You missed our date.”

  “Date?” she raised her eyebrows.

  “Rematch, double or nothing—don’t you remember?”

  “Ah,” she said. “I wasn’t certain you’d let me have another match since you won the first. Luck can’t be with you all the time.”

  “Luck, she says!” He appealed to the interested spectators who’d begun gathering in the courtyard at his first bellow. Then he turned back to Aralorn. “Skill it was, and right well you know it, small one.”

  “Big people have farther to fall,” she retorted. “Let me get my staves, and I’ll meet you there.” She’d tire her body, then see if she could piece together some way to save her father, Nevyn, and Wolf. Because, with Nevyn as the enemy, Wolf was still at risk.

  TWELVE

  Falhart was waiting for Aralorn when she got to the practice grounds. He’d stripped down to his trousers, which was gutsy of him, if not too smart. A leather shirt was fair protection against bruises—and the cold for that matter.

  Shirtless, he appeared even larger than he did clothed, and if that flesh was tinged blue from the weather, it didn’t detract from the whole. From the looks of him, he trained as hard as any new recruit, for there wasn’t a spare bit of flesh anywhere.

  If she’d been the kind of person who was easily intimidated, she’d have been getting nervous. As it was, she looked around but didn’t see his wife or any other reason for the display—though there was a fair-sized crowd beginning to gather.

  Aralorn generally preferred to keep as much clothing on as possible when fighting someone who didn’t know her; the less anyone saw of her muscles, the more they underrated her abilities—not that she expected Falhart to underestimate her. Perhaps he fought stripped down to intimidate his opponent. If she were as large as he, she might try that tack, but she wouldn’t expect it to be too effective against a small woman who was used to fighting musclebound men.

  “Let you win once, and you get visions of invulnerability,” she mourned, gesturing toward his discarded clothing. “Just think of the bruises you’ll carry tomorrow.”

  “You talk pretty big for a little thing who got beaten soundly yesterday,” he returned, working his big staff in a pattern that made it blur and sing.

  His weapon was impressive: He was using his war staff rather than the practice one he’d had yesterday. It was half a foot taller than he was and as big around as he could comfortably hold—Aralorn doubted she could close her hand around it. It was stained almost black and shod with polished steel that caught the light as he made it dance. She shook her head at him—there were easier ways to warm up.

  Watching the gathering crowd, Aralorn grinned at the looks of awe her brother was receiving from the young men. Obviously, he didn’t put on a display like this every day.

  In comparison, she knew that she made a pitiful showing. She’d picked the same single staff she’d fought with yesterday: Her staff looked like a child’s toy in comparison to Falhart’s. She set it aside as she warmed up, stretching her muscles but not using them appreciably.

  She could hear active betting in the crowd, which meant that someone expected her to win, which surprised her given Hart’s show of force.

  “Got those five coppers handy?” she asked, as a way of announcing she was ready to fight. “I don’t accept credit.”

  “I’ve got them,” said Correy, pushing his way to the fore of the crowd and stepping over the low barrier that defined the ring. “Can’t even buy a night’s stay in a decent inn for that, Aralorn. Are you sure you don’t want to up the bet?”
>
  She shook her head. “I never bet more than ten—and then only if it is a bet I’m certain to win. Any more than that, and I might miss it. I’m just a poor mercenary, not heir to a landed noble like some people I know. And, Correy, anyone who spends five coppers for a night at the inn better be paying for more than room and board, or else he’s getting rooked. Falhart, are you through wasting your strength yet?”

  He looked at Correy, who nodded.

  Which was odd—unless she tied it in with Falhart’s bare chest and the active betting. “It’s not kind to sucker people who can’t afford it, Correy,” she said softly.

  “I’m not taking more than they can afford—Father pays his men well.” He turned his back to the crowd so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Besides, Hart’s not throwing the fight. He just told me that he’d be surprised if you let him win twice in a row.”

  “He owes me a gold for fighting without my shirt,” murmured Hart. “I get that win or lose.”

  Aralorn grinned at him, “Does your wife know you take your shirt off for money?”

  “Just don’t tell Irrenna,” he pleaded—only half joking.

  “Oh-ho,” she crowed. “This sounds like blackmail material.”

  Hart rolled his eyes, “Can we get on with this? It’s blasted cold out here.”

  Aralorn straightened and shook her shoulders out. “Fine. I’ll add a little black to your blue skin.”

  Correy stepped out of the ring, leaving it to the combatants.

  The secret of fighting against a man using a tree was never to be where he thought you were going to be. Her staff could turn his, but if she was stupid enough to try to block his directly, it would snap.

  For the first few minutes, they fought silently, trying to take each other by surprise before it turned into an endurance contest. Falhart had to move more bulk around than Aralorn, but she had to move hers faster because of the length of his reach, so they were both breathing heavily when they backed off.