Kisrah gazed at the stone floor. “Where is your wolf? I was under the impression that he went everywhere with you.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully and added a little bait. “That’s one of the things I need to speak with you about.”
The Archmage leaned back against the wall. When he spoke, it seemed off the topic of discussion. “I fought a campaign against the Darranians with your father once, did you know?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Battles are odd things,” he said in musing tones. “Sometimes it seems as if you do nothing but hack and slash; at other times it seems as if you do nothing at all for weeks at a time. During the former, you learn a lot about your comrades by their actions; during the latter, you learn about them from their speech.”
His gaze rested on the Lyon’s quiet figure. “Your father is ferocious, tireless, and absolutely honorable. But more than that, he is cunning, always thinking—especially in the thick of battle, when everyone else is lost in bloodlust. He taught me a lot about how to judge men, to choose leaders and followers. He knew every man in our group and used them according to their strengths, and he tried to know as much about the men we fought as he did our own.” He reached out and touched the Lyon’s still face. “I learned to love him as much as I ever did my own father—as I expect every man to fight under him felt.”
While he spoke, Aralorn half sat, half leaned against the bier. When he paused to make sure she was listening, she nodded.
“While we waited for battle, we talked, your father and I. He told me something of you. He told me you’d fought with him against brigands here at Lambshold and said he’d rather have had you beside him than any three men. He’d have brought you to fight by his side as he did Falhart if it hadn’t been for his lady wife. He said you were clever, devious, and deadly—said you could outthink and outride any man he had with him, including himself.”
“You have a reason for all this praise, I trust,” said Aralorn.
Kisrah nodded, and a sudden grin lit his face. “Absolutely. First, let me say that I do not accept your apology, as I’m certain that you intended every frustrating minute of our last meeting—and enjoyed it as well. Devious and manipulative, your father said.”
He sobered, and Aralorn thought it might be sadness that crossed his face. “But—despite what I have been told, having the father you do, you could not be without honor and decency. I hope that a productive talk might shed some light on a few things. I think that I, too, have some things to tell you that it were better to talk of outside these walls.” He paused, and continued softly. “You might bring your wolf.”
Aralorn nodded. “I’m sure Wolf will join us at some point in our journey. Father’s got enough animals around here that you shouldn’t have a problem finding a mount: I assume by the speed of your arrival that you chose to translocate yourself—”
She didn’t know why she’d brought that up until she realized she was watching his face for guilt. There was none, of course; he hadn’t realized what Geoffrey had done to her after Kisrah had used his magic to transport her into the ae’Magi’s care.
Instead, Kisrah nodded, with a faint grimace of distaste. “Not my favorite spell, but it was important that I get here as soon as possible.
“You’re a braver man than I am,” murmured Aralorn. “I’ll meet you in the stables. Ask Falhart if you need help finding warm clothing.”
Aralorn had intended to take him only a short distance before stopping to talk, but she hadn’t counted on the wind. It kicked up when they were just out of sight of the keep.
The voices screamed through her ears: screams that brought visions of Geoffrey’s dungeons and dying children, the cries of the Uriah—shambling, rotting things that had once been human but now only hungered. Sheen picked up on her agitation and began snorting and dancing in the snow, mouthing his bit uncertainly as he waited for an ambush to leap from the nearest bush.
Hoping that the wind would settle down, she kept going. At this rate, they’d be at the temple before she could talk. She tried to ignore the wind for as long as she could, but at last she tucked the reins under her knees and tugged a woolen scarf from around her neck and wrapped it tightly around her ears.
“Are you all right?” asked Kisrah.
“I seem to have developed a bit of a problem with the wind,” she said truthfully: She tried to limit her lies when she could, especially when she was talking to wizards.
“Earache?” said Kisrah with some sympathy.
“I’m looking for someplace less windy,” she told him. “I hadn’t planned on riding all the way to the goddess’s temple for a little private conversation.”
He smiled. “I could do with a little exercise anyway. But if you can find a sheltered place I might be able to do something about the wind.”
She frowned at him. “You human mages,” she said. “Always so ready to impose your will where it doesn’t belong. There’s a small valley not too far from here; we’ll be free from the wind without any magic at all.”
He looked startled for a moment. “I’ve never been referred to in quite those terms. Do you not think of yourself as human, then?”
She smiled tightly, her tension owing more to the wind than any irritation with him. “No. But I won’t use the terms my shapeshifter cousins use for mageborn who use unformed magic. They aren’t flattering. Human will have to do.”
As she’d thought it might, the steep sides of the valley—well, gully, really—provided some relief from the wind. Aralorn stopped Sheen and cautiously removed the scarf from her ears. The roar had died to a dull whisper she could safely ignore.
“Why don’t you start, as you still owe me for your rudeness yesterday?” said Kisrah after he’d stopped and turned his horse so he faced her directly.
“All right,” agreed Aralorn readily. “How much do you know about charismatic spells?”
“What?” he asked in some surprise, but he answered her question without waiting for her to repeat herself. “I’ve never heard of one that was not black magic.”
“Yes,” said Wolf from behind them, “they are. Of the blackest kind.”
Aralorn turned to frown at Wolf. He was supposed to wait until she’d made certain that Kisrah wouldn’t attack him on sight. She supposed that it said something about Kisrah’s state of mind that he did not.
Wolf was in human form, clothed as always in black—an affectation Aralorn was determined to change. It wasn’t that he didn’t look good in it, just that it was a bit morbid at times. The silver mask was nowhere evident, and the magic-scarred face looked worse than usual in the bright winter sunlight.
“Cain,” said Kisrah softly, as if he hadn’t really believed what the specter had told him.
Wolf bowed shallowly without letting his eyes drop from the Archmage’s. “Lord Kisrah.”
“You are here to tell me the importance of . . . these charismatic spells, I assume?”
Wolf shook his head. “I wouldn’t have mentioned them myself, but as Aralorn has seen fit to do so, I will explain—better yet, I’ll cast one.” He made an economical motion with his hand.
Aralorn sucked in a breath at his recklessness. She would have thought the battle with his father would have cured him of seeking battle with another powerful mage. Couldn’t he have just told Kisrah how the spell worked?
Kisrah looked white and strained, but he gestured with equal rapidity—a counterspell, thought Aralorn—or rather a breaking spell of some sort, because it wasn’t possible to directly counter an unknown spell.
“Here,” said Wolf softly. “I’ll give you more magic to work with.”
Aralorn didn’t see anything happen, but a moment later Kisrah swore and pulled a thick gold-and-ruby ring off his finger, tossing it into the snow. It must have been quite warm, as it fell quickly through to the ground, then melted a fair-sized hole around it that exposed the yellowed grass beneath.