Patricia Briggs: Wolfsbane

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.”

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 time 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.”