Patricia Briggs - Wolfsbane

“Your magic held it in check while you were unconscious,” said Aralorn urgently. “Green magic, Wolf. Can you call it again?”

In answer, green magic slid over her skin in a caress, then spilled over the imminent spell like oil over boiling water. Gently, it worked its way between the spell and Kisrah’s magic.

Wolf vibrated in her arms, shaking with the control that it took not to fight for domination over the green magic.

“What in the name of ...” murmured Kisrah, relaxing his stance. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Green magic,” replied Wolf in a strained voice. “It scares me, too. But I think it will work.”

“ ‘Think’?”

Wolf’s scarred lips writhed into a semblance of a smile. “Would you rather I said ‘hope’?”

As Wolf took up the reins of the magic, Kisrah relaxed and ran his hands through his hair, leaving it an untidy mess. Actually, thought Aralorn with exhaustion-born whimsy, he looked quite different from his usual self, his lemon-colored sleeping trousers setting off pale skin stretched over a swordsman’s muscles, his feet bare.

“Now what do we do?” he asked.

“Well,” said Wolf, “at this stage the spell can’t be banished, for it has already been given a taste of that which was promised. Can you feel the hunger? So what we do is bring it into completion.” He turned to Aralorn, who was already shaking her head, but she was too weak to do anything more. “I love you, dear heart. If you love me as well, you’ll allow me this. Someone must die tonight—I won’t allow my father to kill again and not do something about it.”

He held her gaze with his own until tears slid down her cheeks.

“Ridane said someone had to die,” said Aralorn. “This is what she meant, wasn’t it? The nature of the spell laid on Father is such that either he dies, or someone else does. I didn’t bring you back for this, Wolf.”

His eyes warmed, and he touched her face. “If you hadn’t brought me back, my love, Ridane’s bond would have taken you with me. I should have severed it before I started the spell—I waited too late. I didn’t want to lose you.”

He dropped his hands, leaving her cold and alone. “This was laid upon your father because of me; should he die for my sins?”

“Not your sins,” returned Aralorn heatedly. “Your father’s sins.”

“No,” said Nevyn from the doorway. “My sins.”

The darkness that had blocked the door was gone, banished by Nevyn, or perhaps her uncle, who stood behind him. Nevyn’s face was grim and pale.

“I have allowed myself to be used,” he said. “I allowed Geoffrey to twist my thoughts until I have become what my father thought I was.”

He stepped forward until he stood before Wolf, facing him. “I thought that it was you who was corrupt, who needed destroying—instead, I find that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for a man you barely know. Evil corrupted me; it has tempered you.”

He turned to Aralorn and crouched in front of her.

“Sister,” he said softly, so quietly that she knew that no one else in the room heard exactly what he said. “Story-Spinner, weave a good one for Freya when she wakes—that she will honor the father of the child she carries, for its sake.”

Exhaustion made Aralorn’s thoughts slow. She was preoccupied with keeping Wolf alive, and it made her slow.

When Nevyn surged to his feet, and told Wolf, “Use this,” she finally caught on. “Nevyn, wait .” But it was already too late.

Nevyn called upon his magic and was engulfed in flames so hot that his flesh melted from his bones like water.

“Wolf?” said Aralorn in a voice she hardly recognized, so thickened was it from grief. But there was a real possibility, given Wolf’s reluctance to use black magic, that he would refuse Nevyn’s sacrifice.

But it was Kisrah who said, “Don’t let him die in vain, Wolf.”

Wolf hesitated, torn between the horror of using yet another person’s death to fuel his magic and the desires of the man who had given his life for his convictions.

“Please,” whispered Aralorn, tears of grief sliding down her face.

He dropped his knife and lifted his arms, drawing the power of Nevyn’s death to him. He waited for the filth to settle on his soul, but the death magic rested quietly within his grasp, as if a dead man’s blessing had the ability to wipe clean the foul work to which Wolf had been put.

The respite was brief, for as he willed it, the hold that had kept the spell in abeyance began to fade slowly, allowing Wolf to take control of one part before releasing another. No benediction could wash away the evil of the black art that comprised the spell, and Wolf shook under the force of it even as he threaded death magic through it in completion.

The spell pulsed wildly for a moment before concentrating upon the still form of the Lyon, then, as swiftly as the flight of a hawk, it was gone, leaving the room reeking with the stench of evil.

Wolf dropped to his knees.

Aralorn slid across the floor to the small mess of charred bones, where Kisrah and Gerem already knelt.

“What is happening? Who is that man?”

Aralorn looked up to see Irrenna standing in the entranceway, clad only in her nightrobes. The lady’s gaze traveled around the room, pausing at the silent form of her husband before halting on Aralorn’s tear-streaked face.

“There is a dead howlaa by the stables,” Irrenna said. “We were trying to find out how it got there when there was a terrible noise, as if the stones of the keep were shifting.”

“Oh, Mother,” croaked Aralorn, as Correy and Falhart, who must have been drawn by the same sound, came into the room as well. “Irrenna,” she tried again. “Nevyn saved Father, but he died in the doing of it.”

“The Lyon’s waking now,” said Kisrah.

Gerem jumped up and ran to the bier. Kisrah lingered a moment. He murmured something that Aralorn couldn’t hear and conjured a white rose, which he set just inside the charred area. Then he, too, left the dead for the living.

Irrenna froze for an instant before she, Falhart, and Correy all ran to the Lyon’s side.

Bound by weakness and inclination, Aralorn stayed by Nevyn’s remains. She touched the blackened skull gently, as if a stronger touch would have hurt him. “Rest in peace, Nevyn.”

A cold nose touched her hand, and she turned to Wolf, who wore his wolf form once more.

His golden eyes were dim with sorrow, and Aralorn drew him close, pressing her face into Wolf’s shoulder. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

Far to the east, the Dreamer stirred. It had been for naught—all the manipulation, all the work, and its own tool had betrayed it.

It had known the dreamwalker was not stable, but it had not expected him to choose to die so that the Lyon would live. By that choice, he had rendered the magic useless for the Dreamer to feed upon. Cain’s death would not have been useless, for the Archmage’s son had been used by the Dreamer before; not even the purity of Cain’s willing self-sacrifice would have stopped the Dreamer from feeding.

It would sleep now, but its sleep would not be as long, or as deep. It would not have to wait another millennium for a corrupt Archmage to awaken it. When Geoffrey ae’Magi had died, it had seen to it that the Master Spells would not be used again.

The Dreamer stirred, then settled beneath the weight of the ancient bindings. It would wait.

Aralorn examined the healing cut on Sheen’s side. It looked as if it had been healing a week rather than three days; she was going to have to talk to the stablemaster and find out what he used for ointment.