There was a short pause, then Kisrah said, Why black magic? And why bring others into it, to blacken their souls as well?
If it were not black, any mage could unwork the spell. As for the others—Geoffrey’s voice softened with understanding —did you not try and unwork the spell? If it had been only one, anyone could have freed the Lyon. The time is not yet met for him to awaken. Have patience, all will be well.
Aralorn tried to make herself even smaller without moving so much as a hair. She very much would rather that neither of the participants in this bizarre conversation realized that there was a mouse listening to every word.
The Lyon will die if something is not done soon. She has no intention of bringing Cain into this, or she would have done it long since. No good can come of this, Geoffrey. Evil begets only evil. The magic that I, and whatever other poor benighted fools you chose to aid you wrought here, is evil. I should not have done it.
Geoffrey’s voice was harsh. You think my son is so stupid that you could snare him any other way? I searched for him fruitlessly for years without catching him—because I could not find the right bait. Now I have it. Don’t fret yourself, he’s here with her. Cain’s mother was a shapeshifter. She gave him the ability to use green magic, something I failed to recognize until it was too late because of his talent with human magic. The mixture proved volatile—too volatile for his sanity. At least I hope he is insane . . . that is easier to accept than flesh of my flesh being so given to evil.
Geoffrey paused as if putting aside an old grief. Aralorn’s face twisted into a snarl, an expression that sat oddly on the mouse’s face as she traded terror for rage at last. She put aside all thoughts of an ancient evil, satisfied that her enemy was Geoffrey ae’Magi. She and Wolf must have failed. This is Geoffrey ae’Magi. He twists and manipulates with a skill I might envy if he did not use it as he does.
Kisrah did not respond, and at last the phantom continued. Don’t be so impatient. I told you he would come. He might even be here already. I’ve seen him take the shape of animals before. Have you looked closely at Aralorn’s wolf?
With those words, Geoffrey’s form dissolved. As it left the room, Lord Kisrah drew in a deep breath that was more of a gasp and sat up, clutching his head and grimacing in pain. He got up slowly, like an old man, and stirred the coals in the fire before setting a log in the grate. It was a very long time before he went back to sleep, and Aralorn didn’t move until he did.
A very cautious mouse crept out of the room at last, shivering and wary.
Wolf, in human form and wearing his mask, opened the door and let Aralorn into her room before she had a chance to knock. Startled, she looked quickly around to make certain there was no one to see him before stepping through the door and pushing it closed behind her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked after a brief look at her face. “What frightened you?”
She stepped closer to him and pressed against his warm chest. She felt him stiffen momentarily, as he still did at unexpected touches, then he relaxed and pulled her more tightly to him. She took a deep breath, feeling her panic abate.
She stepped back to see his face.
“Thanks, I needed that.” She hesitated. “I saw . . . Wolf, it was your father. I was watching Kisrah sleep when your father materialized in the room.”
He didn’t appear surprised, just tugged her closer again and bent to rest his head on top of hers as she told him the whole of what she had seen.
“He has to be dead,” she whispered. “He has to be, but I swear to you this was him.”
“Are you certain it was he?”
An illusion? Aralorn examined her memory. Illusionists could not create an actual double any more than a shapeshifter could take on the appearance of a specific person. There were too many fine details to be missed—a mole behind the earlobe, the slant of a smile, the swing of a walk.
“Not unless it was created by an illusion master who knew your father very well,” she said finally. “Every nuance of speech or expression was Geoffrey’s.” She frowned. “Though he didn’t really speak. I would say that it was mindspeaking, but I’ve never been able to send or receive by mind. I understood everything he said—they said—quite clearly.”
“Dreamspeaking is different,” replied Wolf. “If Kisrah was asleep, probably it was a dreamspeaker—which was one of my father’s odder talents.”
“Dreamspeaking as in dreamwalking?” asked Aralorn. “It can be part of the same gift. Did my father have a scent?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, shocked at the inane . . . Wait, not such an inane question after all. “Allyn’s toadflax, I never thought of that. I don’t remember ...” A mouse’s sense of smell was not as good as a wolf’s, but it was better than a human’s.
“Father had a scent that he always wore: cloves and—”
“—cinnamon,” she broke in. “I remember. I would have noticed that. I don’t think he had any scent at all.”
“Dreamwalker then,” said Wolf. She couldn’t tell what he thought about it. “Though it’s a rare talent, my father was not the only dreamspeaker among the wizards. Whatever you saw was not a real person but a similitude. Any dreamwalker who knew my father well could produce it.”
“So it isn’t your father,” she said with a rush of relief.
“I didn’t say that.” Wolf sighed and tightened his hold. “Dreamwalking is one of the two or three things that wizards are supposed to be able to do for a while after they die.”
“There are a lot of dead wizards around?” Aralorn asked.
Wolf shrugged. “I’ve never seen any. There are stories, but no one really believes them.” He hesitated. “It’s just that if any wizard would come back from the dead, it would be my father.”
“So this is either your father or another wizard who knows a lot about your father.”
“If Kisrah were a little better at self-deception,” said Wolf, loosening his hold, “it could even have been him. I never heard that dreamwalking was one of his abilities, but most of the great mages have several.”
“Kisrah thought your father was a good man,” she returned.
“My father’s magic was powerful enough to reach Sianim,” he said. “Certainly he’d have put stronger spells on any wizard close enough to smell black magic. On his own, Kisrah is pretty observant: He’d know if he was causing my father’s appearances in his dreams.”
“I was hoping for the Dreamer.” Aralorn stepped away and began undressing.
“You just think the Dreamer would make a better story,” he said.
She frowned at him. “What’s the use of going to all this work if you can’t brag about it when you’re through? If it is your father, we have to be quiet about it.” She took a step nearer to him, then said suspiciously, “If I didn’t know you better, I would say that you’re cheerful. You are never cheerful around the subject of your father.”
“My father isn’t a cheery topic,” he said. “But whether we are dealing with him, some other wizard, or a creature out of one of your stories is something that can wait. I think I have a solution to our more immediate problem. I’ve been doing some thinking while you were gone, and I’ve remembered a few things. If we can get Kisrah and Gerem’s cooperation, I think I can break the spell on your father.”
She stilled. “Are you sure?”
“My dear Lady, nothing’s certain in this life, but it should work.”
“What about the possibility of Geoffrey’s attacking you?”
“If Kisrah and Gerem are willing to cooperate, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
He sounded very certain, but so had Geoffrey.
“Kisrah’s not very happy with what’s been done to my father, or his own part in it,” she said. “But convincing him that Geoffrey is . . . was . . . is—Plague it!—that Geoffrey was-and-is not a good man won’t be easy.”