“I propose that we tell everyone as much as we know,” suggested Correy in a reasonable tone of voice. “We’re not Darranians to be frightened of a little magic—but wariness comes with the territory.”
Aralorn was nonplussed for an instant, then a slow smile lit her face. “I’ve gotten used to fabricating stories for everything—I’d forgotten that sometimes it is possible to tell everyone what’s really going on—it is good to be home.”
The activity around the bier room had attracted the attention of several people in the great hall. When Correy drew back the curtain, Aralorn saw that Falhart was standing near the opening with a slender woman who could only be his wife, Jenna. Nevyn and Freya were there, too.
Correy glanced around the room with an assessing eye. Impatiently, he grabbed a pewter pitcher from a surprised servant and dumped the liquid it contained onto the floor. With a boyish grin, he took the empty vessel and flung it against a nearby stone pillar. The resultant clamor had the effect of silencing the room momentarily.
“Good people,” bellowed Correy, though the effect was somewhat marred by the silly grin on his face. “I am here to announce that my father’s interment has been indefinitely postponed because of a slight misconception on our part. It seems that the Lyon lives.” He had to wait a moment before the noise level dropped to where he could be heard. “My sister, Aralorn, has determined that it is some ensorcellment that holds Father in thrall. I will send to the ae’Magi at once for his aid. Until he arrives, I would ask that no one enter the chamber.”
“You say the shapeshifter wishes no one to enter?” Nevyn’s face was pale. Freya touched his arm, but he shook himself free of her hand.
“I say no one enters,” snapped Correy.
“There is a trap of some sort,” said Aralorn before matters between the two men worsened. “I have neither the skill nor the knowledge to deal with it. I fear that anyone without safeguards would be in danger of ending up in the same state as my father.” She bowed her head formally at Nevyn. “As you are far better trained than I, you are free to enter or not as you wish.”
Nevyn gave a shallow nod but didn’t move his eyes from Correy. “I would like to verify her opinion.”
“Fine,” said Correy.
“Have a care,” murmured Aralorn, as Nevyn brushed past her to enter the smaller room.
Aralorn looked at Wolf and gestured after Nevyn. He sighed loudly and ducked through the curtain behind the human mage.
While Irrenna dealt with the questions thrown at her, Falhart picked up the dented pitcher and handed it to Correy with a brotherly grin. “Never thought to see the day that my courtly brother dumped good ale on the floor in a formal gathering.”
Correy took the pitcher with a sheepish smile and shrugged. “It seemed . . . appropriate.”
Falhart turned to Aralorn. “Well, Featherweight, you did it again.”
She raised her brows. “Did what?”
“Managed to put the whole household in an uproar. You even turned Correy into a barbarian like ourselves. Look at all the work you caused the servants: This room will smell like a brewery for a se’night.”
Aralorn drew in her breath and puffed out her chest and prepared to defend herself. Before she could open her mouth, she was engulfed in Falhart’s arms.
“Thanks,” he said.
When Falhart set her down, Correy picked her up in a similar fashion, then gave her to an older man she recognized as one of the Lyon’s fighting comrades—and she wasn’t the only woman passed from one embrace to the next. From there the gathering took on the festiveness of Springfair.
Out of the corner of her eye, Aralorn saw Wolf find a place under one of the food-laden tables. Knowing from his actions that Nevyn was safely out of the curtained alcove, she relaxed and enjoyed herself.
Nevyn had no intention of working magic while under the watchful eye of Aralorn’s companion, who had inexplicably followed him.
He usually loved four-footed beasts of all kinds, but the cold yellow eyes of the wolf gave him chills. Would it have followed him if it were only a pet wolf as she claimed? Was it some relative of hers? He couldn’t tell the shapeshifters from any of the other creatures of the forest.
After completing a brief inspection of the room, Nevyn rejoined the guests. He would return to the Lyon when everyone was gone.
The tenor of the evening had changed during the short time he’d been gone. The quiet, hushed crowd had grown boisterous and loud, forgetting, in their joy at Aralorn’s news, that the Lyon still was in danger.
Nevyn watched his wife dance with Correy for a moment, but he was uncomfortable with the noisy crowd. He disliked strangers and gatherings of people. Not even eleven years in Lambshold had managed to change that. Without so much as a touch of envy, he watched the others celebrate: He liked knowing that so many people cared for the man who’d been a much better father to him than his own.
Smiling faintly, he turned and left the room, taking care to leave unseen. If Freya knew he’d gone, she would follow him—not understanding that he wanted her to enjoy herself. He loved her more because they were different, and had no desire to change her.
The smile grew more comfortable on his face as he took the servants’ stairs to reach the suite he shared with his wife. He felt better than he had for a long time. Aralorn’s discovery took a large portion of the weight of responsibility off his shoulders. He’d dreaded the thought that he would have to stop the burial himself despite the assurances he’d received to the contrary.
He felt guilty for what had been done to the man he loved as a father. But that would soon be over as well. He also hadn’t wanted to hurt Aralorn, and she would be hurt when she realized that she was responsible for her father’s condition: She was too smart not to make the connection. At least she wasn’t in any danger, not now.
He truly believed that she was something unnatural—even evil—but part of him still had a tender spot for the funny, teasing girl who had welcomed him to Lambshold. For that child’s sake, he hoped this would soon be over. He’d hurt her tonight. He hadn’t meant to, but he had to remind himself what she was lest he begin to forget the terrible things that magic could do no matter how good the man wielding it.
He entered his bedroom with a sigh of relief. One of his cats jumped down from the chair it had been sitting on to strop itself against his leg.
Nevyn stripped off his formal dress, leaving it where it fell. The cat mewed imperatively, and he picked it up before lying down in the bed he shared with Freya.
“Problems, Nevyn?” whispered an accentless voice in Darranian from the shadow-laden window alcove.
Nevyn jumped, still unused to the way the mage could appear out of nowhere. “My lord,” he greeted him. “I was just thinking. It happened as you said it would. Aralorn discovered the spell, though she managed to stay out of the trap as you feared she might.” He was glad of it, he thought with unusual defiance.
The sorcerer emerged from the alcove and stood in the light of the single candle Nevyn had left burning. He was taller than Nevyn and moved like a warrior despite the wizard’s robes he wore. His hair was the same color as the black cat that rested on Nevyn’s lap. His eyes were cobalt blue.
“Don’t fret,” he said, his voice matching the perfection of his face. “She could only escape because he was there.”
Nevyn shook his head. “I saw no one enter the room but Aralorn, Irrenna, and Correy.”
“Nonetheless,” said the other man again, “it was his magic that stopped the banishan from completing its work. That you did not see him enter is hardly surprising. My son is capable of great magics. There is a door into the bier room—a lock would be no barrier to a mage of his caliber.” He paused, then snapped his fingers. “Of course,” he said softly. “I should have thought . . . The girl, Aralorn, has been known to travel quite often with a large black wolf. Was he there?”