“Wolf?”
Even wrapped as he was in the grip of his power, her voice reached him. Fear of what his magic would do to her gave him the strength to contain it, just barely.
“Wolf?” Aralorn said again, kneeling beside him.
She didn’t dare touch him as he swayed and shook with rhythmic spasms. Gradually, the spasms slowed and stopped. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up at Aralorn.
“Problems?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to wait for me back by the waterfall?”
“No,” he said. “It’s all right now. It just took me by surprise.”
She looked at him narrowly for a moment before deciding to accept his word on the matter.
“Fine, then. There is some kind of protective illusion over the village. I don’t think we ought to tamper with it, but if we approach, I suspect we’ll be met.”
“Such an illusion is not the usual practice?” He sounded as controlled as he usually did, though he was so tense she could see the fine trembling of his muscles.
Aralorn shook her head in answer. “Not when I lived here.”
Though the village was hidden, the gateposts that marked the entrance were still there. Wolf, the ruff on his neck still raised from his battle for control of his magic, ranged in random patterns to either side.
“Stay on the path,” she warned him. “They wouldn’t have left the gateposts here if they didn’t have something nasty protecting the village from people who aren’t polite enough to enter by the proper way.”
When she tried to walk between the gateposts, a barrier of magic stopped her. It wasn’t painful, just solid.
Aralorn drew the rune she’d used in the maze on the left-hand pillar, but the barrier remained. She frowned but didn’t try to force her way through the gate.
Instead, she spoke to the watcher who’d accompanied them from the waterfall. “I have come to speak with Halven, my uncle.” Her tongue fought her a little as she curled it around the shapeshifter language that she hadn’t used since she’d last been here.
Beyond the posts, the wind stirred the snow into random swirls. The quiet was oppressive and uncomfortable.
Turning to Wolf, Aralorn said, “They may make us wait for a long time. Sometimes, the oddest things strike them as humorous.”
Without reply, Wolf made himself comfortable though he fairly vibrated with tension. Aralorn shivered as a cold breeze ran under her cloak.
“It is cold here,” said a man behind her in the same tongue she’d used. “You must want to talk to this uncle very badly.”
Wolf came to his feet with a growl; he hadn’t heard the man approach.
She put a hand on his head, then turned to face the stranger.
Shapeshifters were hard to identify: They could assume any features they chose. Nothing in the beautiful face and artfully swept-back bronze hair was familiar. Voices, though, were more difficult to change, and given a moment to recover, she knew who it was. She smiled.
“Badly,” she agreed, switching to Rethian for Wolf’s sake. “I would have waited a lot longer than this, Uncle Halven.”
“You might have indeed,” he replied without altering his language, “had I not seen you myself. I am not high in favor at this moment, and you never were.”
“You flatter me,” Aralorn replied. She continued to speak Rethian. If he was going to be rude, she’d follow his lead. “As I recall, I was too insignificant to warrant animosity.”
Halven smiled like a cat—with fangs and cold eyes. “Aralorn the half-breed certainly was, but the Sianim spy is a different matter altogether.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Spy? Who says I am a spy?”
“If you would talk,” said Halven mildly, “it would best be done here.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “I apologize in advance for keeping you out in the cold.”
“Not at all.” Halven was suddenly all gracious host, though he’d yet to switch to Rethian, which he would have if he’d really been in an accommodating mood. “What brings you and your dog here on this chilly morning?”
Wolf was sometimes mistaken for a dog by people who hadn’t seen him move because he lacked the usual gray coat. It surprised her that Halven would mistake him, though, and she almost turned to look at Wolf. But she didn’t want to draw her uncle’s attention to him.
Assuming the shapeshifters were as resistant to the ae’Magi’s magic as she had been, there was no reason they would be upset about his death; but she would rather they didn’t know any more about Wolf than was necessary. Unlike the people at Lambshold, if Halven looked closely, he might be able to tell that Wolf was a shapeshifter—and a both green and human mage of great power. With that much information, it was only a step to identify him as Cain ae’Magison, who killed the ae’Magi. The shapeshifters didn’t talk much to people in the outside world, but that was one thing she would rather no one knew. The ae’Magi’s spells ensured that almost everyone loved him—and if they knew where Cain was, they would try to kill him.
The maze stones knew what, and who, Wolf was already, but they seldom spoke anymore.
“Have you heard that my father’s been taken ill?” she asked.
“I’d heard he was dead,” replied Halven flatly.
“Yes, well these things do get exaggerated upon occasion, don’t they?” Aralorn said. “I’m pleased to tell you that he’s alive, but there is some sort of magic binding keeping him in a deathlike trance. I wondered if you might know something about it.”
For a moment, her uncle’s expression changed, too quickly for her to catch what it was he felt; she hoped he was glad the Lyon wasn’t dead.
Seeing her face, Halven laughed with real humor that pierced the armor of his outward charm like a ray of sunlight through a stained-glass window. “You want to know if I did it, eh?”
“That was the general idea,” she replied.
“No, child, I haven’t done anything to him. As a matter of fact, we have begun to exchange favors.” He shook his head in bemusement. “I never thought I would deal with a human, but the Lyon is nothing if not persistent—much like his daughter.”
Relief swept through her. Halven prided himself on being truthful in all things. If he’d hurt her father, he’d have told her or found some clever way of not admitting one way or the other.
“Would you be willing to come and look at him? I’ve never seen anything like the spell that holds him—I can’t even tell if it is green magic or human.”
Halven was shaking his head before she finished speaking. “No. Call down one of the human mages. My position in the quorum of elders is touchy enough without risking a visit to the human stronghold. They feel I have compromised our safety, though they agreed before I helped your father with his breeding project.”
“The ryefox,” said Aralorn thoughtfully. “That’s the reason for the new glamour and protection for the village. Too many people know you’re here. What did my father give you for your help?”
“The Lyon has deeded this section of Lambshold to me and my kindred by special dispensation of the new king. We also have a treaty calling for the protection of our land by the Lord of Lambshold in perpetuity.”
“If the Lyon said it, it is true,” said Aralorn. Then she raised an eyebrow. “If he had time to tell my brother Correy about it. You can’t expect Correy to take your word on the matter, given the suspicion that you yourself might have caused my father’s strange condition.”
The Lyon wouldn’t have left it to chance, she knew. He would have recorded it immediately—but Halven might not know that.
“Your manipulation is heavy-handed, Aralorn,” he said.
She shrugged. “I only tell you what you have been telling yourself. The Lyon probably told my brother. Probably my brother will hold to my father’s word—even with the suspicion that will be aimed toward the shapeshifters. But it would be better for you if the Lyon was returned to health. Irrenna has sent word to the ae’Magi, but the spells are black magic. Kisrah may be quite brilliant, but his reputation does not make him an expert in the dark arts.”