Patricia Briggs: Wolfsbane

He had always come to his books for the strength he needed to resist his father. So he had come here, to his collection of books that rested deep in the heart of a mountain in the Northlands, to find the strength to do the right thing.

He walked on through the rows of books, pausing here and there to set one straight until he reached his worktable. Not bothering with the chairs, he sat on the table itself, right next to the pair of books he’d retrieved from the ae’Magi’s castle. He touched a splatter of ink, remembering days not long past that he and Aralorn had worked there, searching through the books for just the right spell. He remembered the ink that stained her hand and the table as she scratched out notes in handwriting that was just short of illegible.

He remembered bringing her from his father’s dungeons more dead than alive, laying her still form on the couch, worrying that what he’d done for her wouldn’t be enough—that she would die and leave him alone again.

He remembered and wept where there was no one to see.

Aralorn fretted through dinner. Her theory was a fishing net with holes a sailing ship could get through.

She knew the story about Anslow was true. She’d had it from Ren the Mouse, who’d been a personal friend of the thief-taker. Was she wrong in thinking that the odd vision she’d had of Nevyn as a tree split down the middle meant he had no idea of what his darker half had done?

For that matter, why was she certain it was Nevyn? Kisrah might have depths she’d never seen. Why couldn’t he be the one who was dreamwalking? It was he who said that Geoffrey and Nevyn were the only ones who could dreamwalk. He might have lied. Maybe he and Nevyn were in it together.

Aralorn stared at the ceiling. Matters that had seemed so clear riding back from Ridane’s temple now seemed muddled. She really did not have enough evidence to know who was behind the Lyon’s bespelling—only that it was not Geoffrey.

“Aralorn, are you all right?” asked Irrenna.

Aralorn glanced up and realized that everyone was looking at her—obviously she’d missed something. Or maybe she’d been staring at the pickled eel on the flat of her knife for too long.

“Yes, sorry,” she answered. “Just tired.”

She set the black stuff back on her plate. Snake she could take or leave, but freshwater eel was beyond horrible—especially pickled. She vowed not to let herself get so distracted at mealtime again if the results could be so hazardous.

“I was asking you when you needed to be back at Sianim,” said Irrenna.

“Uhm.” She smiled. “I didn’t exactly take a formal leave of absence. Just left them a note. If they need me, they know where to find me.”

She would tell Wolf that she knew that it wasn’t Geoffrey, so he could take what precautions he could. When her father was back on his feet, they’d figure out the rest.

Wolf came back while she was getting ready for bed, surprising her by teleporting himself right into the room. She knew that he preferred to find somewhere private because the first few moments after he translocated, he was disoriented. He looked pale, but she thought it might just be the result of the spell.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“I have what I need,” he responded, swaying slightly where he stood.

He closed his eyes, and she ran to offer a supportive arm.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just dizzy.”

She was near enough to him to smell the familiar scent of the cave. “My nose tells me you’ve been to the Northlands. I thought you were going to check your father’s library.”

“My dear Aralorn,” he said, without opening his eyes, “a fair portion of my father’s library is in the cave.”

She laughed and hugged him, tucking her head against him in a manner that had become familiar.

“Did you find what you needed?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, tightening his arms until she squeaked.

“I figured out something, too,” she said.

“Oh?” He nuzzled at her neck, scratching her a little with the faint roughness of beard that was new-grown since that morning.

“Wolf, stop that—it tickles. It isn’t your father.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

He switched his attentions to her ear, and she shivered at the effect of his warm breath against her sensitive skin.

“He would—Wolf ...” She couldn’t speak for a moment.

“Hmm?”

“I asked Ridane’s priestess. She says he’s dead and not influencing anyone here.”

He stilled, then kissed the top of her head. “Smart.”

“Always,” she said smugly.

“I love you,” he said.

“Of course you do,” she said, to make him laugh—which it did. “I love you, too. Now you can kiss me.”

He bent down to her ear again, and whispered, “How long were you going to take before you told me that the priestess bound us together unto death?”

Now it was her turn to still. She felt guilty for half a breath, then she realized what his words really meant.

“How long have you known? Plague take you, Wolf.”

She tried to take a step away, but he held her too tightly. His breath seemed to be behaving oddly—then she realized he was laughing. She hit him—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to express her displeasure.

“Aralorn, Aralorn,” he tried to croon between laughs and pretending her halfhearted blows were hurting him. “Did you think I wouldn’t feel it when the priestess set a blood-bond between us? I am a black mage, my love. I understand about blood-bonds—and I can break them if I wish.”

“This one was set by a goddess,” she informed him.

“Maybe she could set a bond between us I could not break,” he told her. “But this one I could. If I wanted to.”

He lifted her off the floor to allow himself better access to her mouth—as well as various and sundry other sensitive areas. Aralorn caught her breath and braced her hands on his shoulders.

“I know you love me,” he told her, the laughter dying from his eyes.

She found herself blinking back tears as she heard how profoundly that knowledge had affected him.

“I know you love me, too,” she said, before her mouth was occupied by things other than speech.

Afterward, he slept. Snuggled tightly against him, Aralorn closed her eyes and wished she didn’t have to ask him to use the dark arts. He had tried to kill himself once rather than use them, but for her he would take the part he had been given. She didn’t know that she was worth it.

No good comes from black magic, Kisrah had said. Ridane’s priestess had told her that someone would die before long. Aralorn shivered and shifted closer to Wolf as if she could protect him by her presence.

It hadn’t been said, but the assumption Wolf had led them all to was that he would remove the spell tomorrow. Surely that would give the dreamwalker something to fret about.

Maybe he’d be walking again tonight.

She decided the best place to keep watch would be in Nevyn’s room. It might already be too late, but there was still a fair portion of the night left—and it had been about this time that she’d seen “Geoffrey” talking to Kisrah.

She started to slide out of bed.

“Aralorn?” Wolf sounded sleepy.

“I’m going spying for a couple of hours,” she said quietly, though he was already awake. She should have known that she couldn’t sneak out on him. “I have a few questions to clean up, and this might be my only chance to do it.”

He cupped her face in the darkness and pulled her until she rested her forehead on his for a moment. “All right,” he said. “Be careful.”