The first thing she saw was Freya sleeping soundly on the bed, her peaceful features revealed by the flickering light of the fireplace.
The sound of the door opening hadn’t disturbed Nevyn either: He was waiting for her in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace from the bed. The firelight illuminated one side of his face clearly, while the other lay in shadows.
“I thought you might come,” he said softly. Then, seeing her glance at her sleeping sister, he said, “Don’t worry, she’s sleeping until morning.”
The sound of his voice sent a chill of unease coursing through her veins. Nevyn spoke Rethian with a thick Darranian accent she’d never heard him use.
“Let Gerem go, Nevyn,” she said.
“You aren’t beautiful,” he said, as if she had never spoken at all. “What magic do you work that holds a man to you like that? Ten years, and the thought of seeing you was more important than punishing him for killing Geoffrey. Geoffrey, who was my teacher, my creator—giving me life and understanding when Nevyn would have seen me dead.”
“Punishing Wolf?” she asked.
He nodded jerkily. Even in the dimly lit room, Aralorn could see the flush that swept up his cheeks as he abruptly leaned forward, every muscle in his body tightening. His voice, in stark contrast to his posture, was soft and slow. “How could you take up with him? We waited and waited for you to come home. Then Geoffrey died, and I found out you’d taken his killer as your lover.”
“How did you find out?” she asked.
Nevyn took a deep breath in through his nose. “Geoffrey told me when he told me that Cain killed him. Cain is evil, don’t you understand?”
He could have found out about her relationship with Cain while he was dreamwalking, she thought.
“Cain did not kill Geoffrey,” Aralorn told him. “What he knows about black magic, Geoffrey taught him—as he taught you.”
Nevyn shook his head. “No. Geoffrey was good. He helped me. It was Cain . . . in the night while Nevyn slept. I saw—I saw it all. Night after night, he called me to perform for me and to teach me . . . I showed you it all, I gave you dreams so that you would know what he was. What I did.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What he forced me to do.”
“I don’t remember,” she said. “I only dreamed of Wolf.” But after she said it, she wondered if it was really true. The story, Nevyn’s story, had come to her so completely while she was riding back from Ridane’s temple—could she have come up with it from some half-remembered dreams?
“You only kept dreams of him,” said Nevyn, his voice dark and ugly. “You’re just a shapeshifting, magic-tainted whore. I’ve told him and told him, but he loves you. Loves you when he hates his magic, hates me because he can’t quit using his magic, can’t give me up altogether.”
He laughed slyly. “But you ruined it the first time he saw the two of you together. It took him a long time to realize that your wolf was Cain—but then, Nevyn was always a little slow.”
“You are Nevyn,” she said, but he ignored her.
“He sent the howlaa then, on impulse. Then he worried and worried until it was killed. Stupid sod forgot that he needs Cain to free the Lyon. If the Lyon is harmed, he’ll never believe it wasn’t his fault.”
“You knew enough about black magic to set the spell,” she said, changing the subject, because it didn’t seem helpful to try to argue with this shade of Nevyn about Nevyn’s guilt or innocence. “Why can’t you unwork it yourself?”
“If he’d succeeded in killing Cain, I could tell Nevyn enough about it to work the spell—but he’d never be able to do it. No stomach for it, I’m afraid. Kisrah might do it, but he doesn’t love the Lyon enough.” He sounded both amused and exasperated.
“Why try to kill Gerem?” asked Aralorn.
“The spell needs a human death,” he said. “Gerem is already tainted by magic, and I needed someone whom Nevyn could see dead. I couldn’t leave the choice to Cain. But I don’t need Gerem anymore.” As he spoke the last word, he came up out of the chair and struck with the sword that he’d held in the shadows.
She saw his intention in his face an instant before he moved, so she threw herself backward, and his blade missed.
Swords, she thought as she stumbled to catch her balance. Plague it, why does it always have to be swords? She dodged another slice as she pulled Ambris.
It was obvious from the first blow who the better swordsman was, and it wasn’t Aralorn. He had been good when she left, and he obviously hadn’t quit practicing. He might even give Wolf a run for his money. She caught the edge of his blade on Ambris and let it slide off.
Even if she’d been able to use her good arm, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. Even if she’d been an excellent swordswoman, she would have had a problem: She was using Ambris. She didn’t want to hurt Nevyn at all—she certainly didn’t want to steal his magic. She wasn’t certain that was what would happen—Nevyn wasn’t trying for godhood as Geoffrey had been. But that was the trouble with ancient artifacts—no one really knew what they did.
There was a game she knew, one her uncle taught her, called Taefil Ma Deogh, Steal the Dragon. Strategy and skill were necessary, but it was deviousness that determined who won and who lost. The last time Aralorn stayed with her mother’s people, she had beaten her uncle eight times out of ten.
Devious, she thought, parrying furiously. Do the unexpected.
She turned and ran—out the door, down the hall to the nearest empty room, and through the doorway. The room was dark, which suited Aralorn just fine. She slid Ambris into a tall, narrow vase, where she wouldn’t be immediately obvious.
Nevyn’s sprinting footsteps were almost at the door as she gathered herself together for another shapechange. She was too weak, too many changes with too little rest between.
Gasping a little, she centered herself and tried again. Pain seared her from toes to fingertips, but as his form appeared in the doorway, she slipped into the shape of a mouse. She huddled just behind the door as he came into the room, called a magelight, and looked briefly around. She waited until he left, then scampered out the door and back to his bedroom.
Wolf finished the last of the painstakingly drawn ink lines on the Lyon’s face. When he was through, he looked over all of his work carefully, for he wouldn’t get a second chance. Satisfied that all was in order, he took out his knife. He should sever the bond he shared with Aralorn before he started, but the chances were too great that she’d find him before he was done. He had to wait until the last moment.
He slid the sharp blade sideways across one wrist. Touching the tip of a fresh quill pen into the dark liquid that pooled in his wound, he began painstakingly retracing the inked lines with blood.
In Nevyn’s room, Aralorn shifted once more to human shape, shaking and shuddering when she was done. If she survived this night, it would be days before she could do so much as light a candle with magic.
She could hear him searching for her, quick footsteps, doors opening quietly. Her heart settled; the sweat dried; and, after a few moments, the pain of overusing her magic receded except for a nagging headache.
She found a likely ambush spot, just inside his door. She was counting on him to believe she would have gone for help rather than come back to face him on her own.
He neared the door, making no attempt at stealth, and Aralorn breathed as silently as she could. He walked in confidently; his first glance fell to the bed. That was all the opening she needed.
With a war cry designed to make him start, she leapt to his back and wrapped one arm around his neck and grabbed the elbow of her opposite arm. This locked the bones of her forearms against the arteries that carried blood to his brain. The mercenaries called it a “nighty-night,” and, if she could hold it for a count of fifteen, Nevyn should drop unconscious. The first five counts would be the telling ground because after that, he would get weaker fast. Surprise counted for two, then he slammed her against the edge of the door.