Patricia Briggs: Wolfsbane

“Actually,” he replied, “I was looking for you. I’ve talked to a few of our elders, and they say that there is no way a dead dreamwalker could do the kinds of things you think Geoffrey ae’Magi has done. I stopped by your room first, but no one was there, so I came here instead.”

“It wasn’t Geoffrey; it was Nevyn,” said Aralorn.

“Nevyn?” asked Gerem, sounding hostile. “Nevyn would never hurt Father.”

“Who are you?” asked Kisrah.

“Kisrah, meet my uncle Halven—he’s a shapeshifter who’s been trying to help. Uncle Halven, this is Kisrah, the current ae’Magi.” Introductions done, she continued without taking a breath. “Nevyn has a problem,” she said, then stopped. There had to be a way to explain without sounding like a madwoman. Her weak sleep spell wasn’t going to keep him under much longer. She had to make them believe her before he awoke.

“Nevyn is ill,” said Kisrah, kneeling beside Aralorn. He patted the sleeping man’s shoulder gently. “If I’d thought that he would have harmed anyone but himself, I never would have sent him here. He was half-mad when we took him from Santik. I’d hoped he’d settle down with me, but he was too damaged. I thought that this was the perfect place for him; he’s seemed happy since he came here.”

“Part of him is,” said Aralorn. “But there is a part of him that is not.”

“There is an unusual separation of his spirit,” observed her uncle.

“I think that the part of him that dreamwalks has separated itself almost completely,” Aralorn said. “He was talking about himself as if he were two different people.”

“I’ve heard that green mages are great healers,” said Kisrah diffidently. “Is there anything that you can do to help him?”

He’d taken the right tone; Halven preened before the respect in the Archmage’s voice. “Since I can see the damage, I might be able to do something,” he said. Graciously, he half bowed to Aralorn. “I think you’re right. It’s the dreamwalking part of him that has split off from his spirit. What is broken can be mended together again—as long as the cause for the break is gone.”

“Santik is dead, and so is Geoffrey,” said Aralorn in answer.

She got to her feet and backed away so that Halven and Kisrah could have free access to Nevyn.

It was over, she thought. Nevyn had been certain that Wolf could free her father. But as his words came back to her, the relief she’d been feeling stopped.

“Human death,” she said.

The two mages were involved in their discussion over Nevyn, but Gerem said, “What?”

Halven had said Wolf hadn’t been in her room.

“Gods,” she said. And she’d been so grateful there were no more secrets between them while she was fighting the howlaa because after her probable demise, Wolf would know exactly how she had felt about him. She could see now how careful he’d been to clear up any misunderstanding that might lie between them, any regrets or doubts that she might have.

If Nevyn knew that it would take a human sacrifice, Wolf did as well.

“Aralorn?” Gerem touched her arm. “What is it?”

Wolf knew, and, like Nevyn, he’d chosen a sacrifice. If Nevyn had realized just who Wolf had picked, he wouldn’t have tried to kill Gerem.

“He told me three times,” she said softly. “He said he loved me, three times.”

“Aralorn?” asked Gerem again.

She didn’t bother to answer but bolted out the door and sprinted down the hall. She took the stairs in leaping strides, ignoring the danger of falling, ignoring the pain in her shoulder, which throbbed in time with her steps.

The great hall was dark, and there was no sign of light behind the alcove curtain, but Aralorn felt the richness of magic at work.

She threw back the curtains and stepped into the darkness, only then feeling the wrongness of the power. It slid across her skin like thick, filthy oil. A moment later, the full effect of the tainted magic hit her as strongly as any fear spell she’d ever felt, leaving her unable to take a step forward for the sheer terror of what lay ahead.

It didn’t feel like a fear spell, though, so she had no antidote for its effects. Perhaps it was a side effect of the magic Wolf was working. As she hesitated in the darkness, fighting the urge to turn tail and run, she could feel the surge of power, and the corruption of the magic grew stronger.

“Deathsgate and back, Wolf,” she said, managing to put one foot in front of the other once, then again, until she stood on the far side of the darkness. “I warned you.”

He stood behind her father, who was covered with markings. Wolf’s scarred face was almost as masklike as the silver one. He touched the side of the Lyon’s face with the first finger of each hand as his macabre voice chanted words in a language she’d never heard. His staff, balanced upright on the claws on its base, glowed radiantly from just behind his right shoulder. Lights and shadows fought for his face so it was unevenly illuminated.

The scent of blood and herbs was neither unpleasant nor pleasurable. It was much hotter than it should have been in a stone room in the winter, and the heat and strong scent combined to make her almost dizzy.

He hadn’t noticed her come in, but she wasn’t surprised. The worst thing a human wizard can do is lose control of a spell, so most of them had incredible powers of concentration—she would have expected no less of Wolf.

Relief swept her briefly at the sight of him still standing, breaking the hold of terror. Her thoughts clear for the first time since she entered the room, she saw the runes that covered the bier and the floor around it. Runes in herbs and chalk and char, but too many of them were drawn in blood.

She looked up swiftly to note how pale his skin was where it was not scarred, and she knew where the blood had come from. His voice rose hoarsely, and the magic surged as he called; it was so strong, her skin tingled, and so foul, she wanted to vomit.

Wolf pulled his hands away from her father, and she saw the dark wound on his wrist. The slowness of the bleeding told its own story, though Wolf should have been unconscious before he lost so much blood. Or dead.

“ No! Plague take you, Wolf!” she said, and ran, ignoring the runes she destroyed on her way, ignoring the knowledge that by breaking his concentration, she could destroy herself and her father as well.

She broke his focus, and he looked up. For a moment, she had a clear view of his scarred face, then the light from his staff went out. She caught him as he fell—as they fell—cushioning his head against her. She grabbed his sticky wrist and wrapped her hand around it, sealing the wound with her own flesh, but his skin was colder than it should be in a room this warm.

In her heightened state, she could feel the wild magic he’d called reach for him, could feel his life fading. She had no time for panic; instead, she drew in a deep, calming breath and centered herself . . .

Kisrah watched Gerem follow Aralorn out of the room. He’d overheard enough to have a pretty good idea of where they were going—especially since, once he looked for it, he could feel magic taking shape somewhere in the keep.

Kisrah wasn’t certain that it wouldn’t be better if Wolf didn’t survive. No matter that Kisrah was virtually convinced that Aralorn was right to claim that Geoffrey was a villain. It did not take away the fact that Wolf knew black magic and carried its taint. By Wolf’s own admission, the Master Spells had not allowed Geoffrey to control him—and even if they had, the Master Spells were gone.

If he followed her, he would be forced to choose—to help Wolf or to kill him; so he chose to stay with Nevyn while Aralorn’s uncle tried to heal him.