Patricia Briggs: Wolfsbane

“This damage had been mostly scarred over once,” the shapechanger said, finally looking up from Nevyn. “And only recently torn asunder. Violently.”

“Can you heal him?”

But Halven was looking around the room. “Where is Aralorn?”

“Rescuing Wolf,” Kisrah said.

Halven gave him a sharp glance but turned back to Nevyn. “I can mend the surface,” he said. “That ought to give Nevyn control over his dreamwalking self—probably return him to where he was before this most recent damage. True healing of such an old hurt will take a very long time, but it can be done.”

“If he’ll let you try,” said Kisrah. “He’s stubborn, and his life has not made him fond of magic.”

Halven’s eyes grew cold. “After the damage he’s done here, he’ll accept my healing, or I’ll kill him myself. Henrick is a friend of mine.”

“Nevyn is my friend,” said Kisrah in warning.

The shapeshifter’s mouth turned up, but his eyes did not warm. “Let me do what I can for him now, then. You go help Aralorn—there’s something going on in the bier room. Can you feel it?”

Caught, Kisrah hesitated. “Yes.”

“Go,” said Halven. “This will be easier without you here.”

But not easier for me, Kisrah thought. He would have to choose.

Halven waited for the door to swing shut behind the Archmage before turning again to his patient. The quiet was helpful but not necessary. Once he knew what had to be done, it was not difficult: A spirit was not meant to be divided. All he had to do was provide the magic to assist the weaving.

It did not take long before it was done as well as magic could make it. Only time would completely heal the rift. When he was finished, he waved his hand, and Nevyn’s eyelids fluttered.

Nevyn opened his eyes.

“Welcome back, sir,” said Halven, not unkindly. “I think we may have much to discuss.”

Nevyn rolled to a sitting position and buried his face in both hands. “It was me,” he said. “It was me all along.”

Aralorn held Wolf’s wrist tightly in one hand, sealing the wound, though she feared it was too late. With her free hand, she touched the artery in his neck. For a horrible moment, she thought that he had no pulse, but then she felt the faint beat beneath her fingertips.

He’d been holding to consciousness with magic, she thought. When she’d distracted him, he’d lost control of the power sustaining him and fainted.

They should both be dead. She’d broken the cardinal rule of magic and interrupted Wolf. His spell should have turned this corner of Lambshold into a melted slag like the tower in the ae’Magi’s castle.

It had not.

She was so weary. If she’d been a human mage, she would have had to watch Wolf die. But there was so much power in the room that the warmth of it strengthened her.

Most of the power was in the spell that awaited some missing component to act: Wolf’s death. Aralorn could feel the magic coerced and caged into some shape of Wolf’s devising, but it was human born, and she could not touch it. But flickering around the spell like a candle flame in the wind was other power, a latticework of green magic that held the spell at bay: Wolf’s magic protecting her still.

Someone came into the room, and a last vestige of caution made her look up for an instant and see Gerem stagger through the spell of darkness and silence that covered the curtain to the bier room. In that moment of inattention, when she strayed from her center, Ridane’s bond stretched tight.

Aralorn cried out at the pain and drove her fingers into Wolf’s shoulder and wounded wrist.

“Don’t you leave me, you bastard.” She gritted out the words, and called his green magic to her.

Even though she was careful to leave enough magic to hold Wolf’s spell, power flooded her, filling her veins with icy fire and making it difficult to breathe. She couldn’t tell where the pain was coming from now, from the too-great magic that had answered her call or from the death goddess’s binding that stretched taut and thin between them.

She had no idea what she was doing.

She bowed down and pressed her forehead against his too-cool flesh. She fed him magic at first, but it flowed through him and back into her without leaving any virtue behind. It was his magic, and he’d called it to save her, not himself.

She growled deep in her throat. “Not yet,” she said. “I’ll not lose you to your own stubbornness.”

She took the magic and twisted it until it was attached to her, then thrust it back into him like a needle pulling her life force through him.

“Wolf,” she murmured, touching his unresponsive lips, “don’t you die on me.”

She could feel that his pulse had steadied with the force she’d added, but she could feel, too, that it wasn’t going to be enough. Remembering how she had touched her father’s life, she began singing to aid her work. She hadn’t consciously chosen the song, and was almost amused when she realized it was a rather lewd drinking song—so be it. If anyone knew how to fight off the cold thought of death, it was a bunch of drunken mercenaries.

The music soon soothed her into a trance that allowed her to seep into the pattern of Wolf’s death. With more need than skill, she followed Wolf’s spirit where it lingered, held by thin traces of life.

Recklessly, she threw energy to his fading spirit, to anchor him to his body, using his own magic to do it. She found the bond the death goddess had drawn between them and gripped it like a rope to pull him to her, only to find it gripped in return as Wolf, free from reason and memory, helped her at last.

She came out of her trance slowly, gradually becoming aware of Wolf’s head in her lap, the unusual warmth of the stones beneath her, and the wild, surging magic that filled the room.

“Crap,” she said. She’d called upon too much magic and released the power that had been bound in Wolf’s spell.

She swung her gaze around to look for the reason that the walls were still standing. Kisrah stood before the darkness that was the entrance to the room. His feet were braced and his arms held wide. Gerem stood just behind him, gripping his shoulder with one hand in a position that even Aralorn recognized as “feeding.”

“Wolf?” she said, shaking him with her good arm. “Wolf, wake up.”

“Good idea,” muttered Kisrah, “We’re not going to be able to hold this back much longer.”

Aralorn took the hint and quit being so gentle. “Wolf,” she barked with force enough to please a drill sergeant. “You’ve got to wake up, love. We need you.”

He stirred this time and opened his eyes, frowning at her in puzzlement. He started to speak, and his eyes widened as his senses told him what was going on.

“Gods,” he growled, sitting up a little too abruptly.

She caught him before he could fall back and held him while he closed his eyes against the dizzying weakness of extreme blood loss. Since his weight hit her bad arm with a certain amount of force, she was feeling a bit dizzy herself.

“What did you think you were doing?” he rasped. “You know better than to interrupt a spell in progress.”

“Hmm,” she agreed. “Deathsgate and back, remember? You shouldn’t have tried this.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Kisrah politely, though his voice sounded a little strained. “Not to break in on a personal moment or anything, but do you suppose you could give me a little advice, Wolf?”

“Hmm,” said Wolf. “I suppose ‘run’ won’t work?”

Kisrah laughed, which was a mistake.

Power lit the room with a faint red haze, and the temperature went from warm to hot in an instant. Aralorn felt the surge in magic so strong that it hurt. The smell of scorching cloth filled the room, and the stones gave off an odd grumbling noise. Sweat gathered on Kisrah’s face, and Gerem was looking almost as drained as Kisrah.