In that moment, when the destruction was complete, Wolf tried again to dominate his magic. Cold sweat ran down his back, and for a moment, all he could see were flames melting stone, destructive magic only he could call tearing apart everything in its path. He blinked and set the memory aside with the conviction that someone was about to die. His magic was good at killing. He needed coolness that fear would interfere with if he was going to keep everyone safe, keep Aralorn safe.
Frantically, he fought for control, barely aware of the pain when he fell to his knees. He had to stop it before it hurt Aralorn; he felt certain that if it touched—
Aralorn’s firm hands locked on his shoulder as the cloud whipped violently out of his control, sweeping around the room. Aralorn dodged, but it touched her anyway, ruffling her hair.
Wolf cried out hoarsely, but the magic left her unharmed and came for him.
Yes, he thought, let it be me.
The swirling mist slid aside as it touched a barrier spell that Wolf had not called, and it turned the destructive force without ever quite meeting it. Again, Wolf grappled with it, fighting to bring it under control before it had another chance at Aralorn.
Words drifted by his ears, Halven’s words. He ignored them.
“No, plague you, listen to me. Wolf.” Aralorn was less easily disregarded. “My uncle says let it go. Don’t hold it. Release it. It’s done what you asked; if you release it, it will go.”
Fear gnawed at his control, giving the magic more room to act, and the mist concentrated on the barrier the shapeshifter had set.
“I can’t!” He gritted out the words. The damaged vocal cords made speech more difficult than usual. “Aralorn.”
“It won’t hurt her.” Halven’s voice was low and soft, as if he were soothing a wild beast. “Let it go.”
At last, because he had no better plan, Wolf did as the shapeshifter suggested. For a long moment, he thought it had done no good. The magic continued to rage, pushing hard at a warding Halven had thrown up around them. Then it faded, until only a faint trace lingered in the air, evidence that magic had been worked there.
“Fluctuates,” muttered Halven in a voice of great disgust. “As the gods gave us life, your control fluctuates, she said.”
Wolf hung his head in exhaustion, sitting on the ground because he didn’t have the energy to stand. With a gesture, he dissolved the mask, letting the cool air touch his scarred face.
Aralorn knelt behind him, her hands still on his shoulders. “It was attacking you, Wolf. What happened?”
He didn’t reply to her question. Looking at him, she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. Eyes closed, he was breathing in great gulps of air like a racehorse after the meet of its life. Without the mask, his face was pale and covered in sweat.
Halven examined the massive burn scars that covered Wolf’s ruined face. Her uncle’s eyes widened a bit as he took in the extent of the damage. He shared a thoughtful look with Aralorn.
Her uncle waited until a little color had returned to Wolf’s face and his breathing had settled before he spoke. “Has anyone ever told you it’s unhealthy to work green magic when you have a death wish?”
Aralorn took in a breath so deep it hurt. Though Wolf’s self-destructive tendencies were nothing new to her, she’d thought he was getting better, thought she’d been helping him to heal.
“If I had been a tad less powerful,” Halven continued, “it would have killed you. If you don’t ask anything of the magic you gather, it strives to do what your inmost self desires—regardless of your awareness of those desires. I would have thought that even a human-trained mage would know better than that.”
“I didn’t gather it.” Wolf’s voice was hoarser than usual, but he opened his eyes and managed a respectable glare.
“I have to disagree,” replied Halven, not visibly intimidated, “though you certainly shouldn’t have been able to. Usually, green magic only responds to the call of a mage who is in tune with the world around him—and from the demonstration we’ve just had, I would say that you are not even in tune with yourself.”
Wolf reached up and gripped Aralorn’s hand hard with his own. “I almost killed you—again,” he said without taking his eyes from Halven. “The baneshade broke through the demon-imprisoning ring. I saw it come after you, and there was no time to do anything.”
“In your moment of need, you were served,” said Halven, sounding as if he were quoting something.
Aralorn glanced at her uncle and nodded. “I’ve heard of green magic doing that—but only in stories.”
“That’s because only an uneducated human mage wouldn’t know how to control his magic.”
Wolf came to his feet, swaying. Aralorn was hampered by his tight grip on her hand, but Halven grabbed his shoulder to steady him.
“Easy there,” he said. “Give yourself a minute.”
Wolf stepped away from the unaccustomed touch and looked at Aralorn. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Not at all.” If she’d broken every bone she had, she would have said the same. But, as it happened, the thick flow of Wolf’s magic had been a caress rather than a strike.
“You weren’t attacking her,” said Halven impatiently. “The only one who had anything to worry about in this room was you.”
Wolf looked away from them both. He reached up to touch his mask, something he did when he was uncomfortable. But his mask wasn’t there, and when his fingers touched the scars, he flinched. Aralorn wasn’t the only one who saw it.
“When you want to be rid of that reminder,” said Halven, “come to me, and I’ll teach you how to heal yourself. You’ve the power, and I can teach you the skill.” He looked at the floor, where the baneshade had been. “It was best to destroy the baneshade anyway. It seemed to be focused on Aralorn, and the things can be dangerous in a place as old as this.”
“Plague it,” said Aralorn softly, as a sudden thought occurred to her. “Kisrah is coming here. We might have a problem.”
“What is it?” Wolf tightened like a predator scenting prey; even his body seemed to lose the fatigue that had made his moves less fluid than usual.
“The night your father died, when I came back after you, Lord Kisrah was there.”
“He would know you?” asked Wolf intently. “As the daughter of the Lyon?”
“Although I have absented myself as much as possible from human affairs,” broke in Halven mildly, “I do know that this has become a dangerous conversation. I wish to know nothing about Geoffrey ae’Magi’s death.” He hesitated. “If you survive all of this, Wolf . . . come to me, and we will talk about your recalcitrant magic. Good luck to you both.” He heaved up the bar on the door to the outside and left by that way.
Aralorn shut the door behind him and settled the bar back in place. “Kisrah saw me quite clearly, as a matter of fact—I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone at the time, so I was wearing my own face. I don’t think he connected me with my father—we would have heard something. Kisrah was caught well and good by the last ae’Magi’s spells. If he knew, he’d have come after me before this. But he can hardly miss me when he comes here.”
“I can handle Kisrah if he becomes a problem,” Wolf said mildly enough to frighten Aralorn.
“Thank you,” she said. “But I don’t think that we would survive killing a second ae’Magi.”
“We could do it every year on the anniversary of my father’s death,” suggested Wolf. “Though technically Kisrah would be our first, as my father was killed by the Uriah after you stole his magic.”