Recklessly, she threw energy to his fading spirit, to anchor him to his body, using his own magic to do it. She found the bond the death goddess had drawn between them and gripped it like a rope to pull him to her, only to find it gripped in return as Wolf, free from reason and memory, helped her at last.
She came out of her trance slowly, gradually becoming aware of Wolf’s head in her lap, the unusual warmth of the stones beneath her, and the wild, surging magic that filled the room.
“Crap,” she said. She’d called upon too much magic and released the power that had been bound in Wolf’s spell.
She swung her gaze around to look for the reason that the walls were still standing. Kisrah stood before the darkness that was the entrance to the room. His feet were braced and his arms held wide. Gerem stood just behind him, gripping his shoulder with one hand in a position that even Aralorn recognized as “feeding.”
“Wolf?” she said, shaking him with her good arm. “Wolf, wake up.”
“Good idea,” muttered Kisrah, “We’re not going to be able to hold this back much longer.”
Aralorn took the hint and quit being so gentle. “Wolf,” she barked with force enough to please a drill sergeant. “You’ve got to wake up, love. We need you.”
He stirred this time and opened his eyes, frowning at her in puzzlement. He started to speak, and his eyes widened as his senses told him what was going on.
“Gods,” he growled, sitting up a little too abruptly.
She caught him before he could fall back and held him while he closed his eyes against the dizzying weakness of extreme blood loss. Since his weight hit her bad arm with a certain amount of force, she was feeling a bit dizzy herself.
“What did you think you were doing?” he rasped. “You know better than to interrupt a spell in progress.”
“Hmm,” she agreed. “Deathsgate and back, remember? You shouldn’t have tried this.”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Kisrah politely, though his voice sounded a little strained. “Not to break in on a personal moment or anything, but do you suppose you could give me a little advice, Wolf?”
“Hmm,” said Wolf. “I suppose ‘run’ won’t work?”
Kisrah laughed, which was a mistake.
Power lit the room with a faint red haze, and the temperature went from warm to hot in an instant. Aralorn felt the surge in magic so strong that it hurt. The smell of scorching cloth filled the room, and the stones gave off an odd grumbling noise. Sweat gathered on Kisrah’s face, and Gerem was looking almost as drained as Kisrah.
“Your magic held it in check while you were unconscious,” said Aralorn urgently. “Green magic, Wolf. Can you call it again?”
In answer, green magic slid over her skin in a caress, then spilled over the imminent spell like oil over boiling water. Gently, it worked its way between the spell and Kisrah’s magic.
Wolf vibrated in her arms, shaking with the control that it took not to fight for domination over the green magic.
“What in the name of ...” murmured Kisrah, relaxing his stance. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Green magic,” replied Wolf in a strained voice. “It scares me, too. But I think it will work.”
“ ‘Think’?”
Wolf’s scarred lips writhed into a semblance of a smile. “Would you rather I said ‘hope’?”
As Wolf took up the reins of the magic, Kisrah relaxed and ran his hands through his hair, leaving it an untidy mess. Actually, thought Aralorn with exhaustion-born whimsy, he looked quite different from his usual self, his lemon-colored sleeping trousers setting off pale skin stretched over a swordsman’s muscles, his feet bare.
“Now what do we do?” he asked.
“Well,” said Wolf, “at this stage the spell can’t be banished, for it has already been given a taste of that which was promised. Can you feel the hunger? So what we do is bring it into completion.” He turned to Aralorn, who was already shaking her head, but she was too weak to do anything more. “I love you, dear heart. If you love me as well, you’ll allow me this. Someone must die tonight—I won’t allow my father to kill again and not do something about it.”
He held her gaze with his own until tears slid down her cheeks.
“Ridane said someone had to die,” said Aralorn. “This is what she meant, wasn’t it? The nature of the spell laid on Father is such that either he dies, or someone else does. I didn’t bring you back for this, Wolf.”
His eyes warmed, and he touched her face. “If you hadn’t brought me back, my love, Ridane’s bond would have taken you with me. I should have severed it before I started the spell—I waited too late. I didn’t want to lose you.”
He dropped his hands, leaving her cold and alone. “This was laid upon your father because of me; should he die for my sins?”
“Not your sins,” returned Aralorn heatedly. “Your father’s sins.”
“No,” said Nevyn from the doorway. “My sins.”
The darkness that had blocked the door was gone, banished by Nevyn, or perhaps her uncle, who stood behind him. Nevyn’s face was grim and pale.
“I have allowed myself to be used,” he said. “I allowed Geoffrey to twist my thoughts until I have become what my father thought I was.”
He stepped forward until he stood before Wolf, facing him. “I thought that it was you who was corrupt, who needed destroying—instead, I find that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for a man you barely know. Evil corrupted me; it has tempered you.”
He turned to Aralorn and crouched in front of her.
“Sister,” he said softly, so quietly that she knew that no one else in the room heard exactly what he said. “Story-Spinner, weave a good one for Freya when she wakes—that she will honor the father of the child she carries, for its sake.”
Exhaustion made Aralorn’s thoughts slow. She was preoccupied with keeping Wolf alive, and it made her slow.
When Nevyn surged to his feet, and told Wolf, “Use this,” she finally caught on. “Nevyn, wait.” But it was already too late.
Nevyn called upon his magic and was engulfed in flames so hot that his flesh melted from his bones like water.
“Wolf?” said Aralorn in a voice she hardly recognized, so thickened was it from grief. But there was a real possibility, given Wolf’s reluctance to use black magic, that he would refuse Nevyn’s sacrifice.
But it was Kisrah who said, “Don’t let him die in vain, Wolf.”
Wolf hesitated, torn between the horror of using yet another person’s death to fuel his magic and the desires of the man who had given his life for his convictions.
“Please,” whispered Aralorn, tears of grief sliding down her face.
He dropped his knife and lifted his arms, drawing the power of Nevyn’s death to him. He waited for the filth to settle on his soul, but the death magic rested quietly within his grasp, as if a dead man’s blessing had the ability to wipe clean the foul work to which Wolf had been put.
The respite was brief, for as he willed it, the hold that had kept the spell in abeyance began to fade slowly, allowing Wolf to take control of one part before releasing another. No benediction could wash away the evil of the black art that comprised the spell, and Wolf shook under the force of it even as he threaded death magic through it in completion.
The spell pulsed wildly for a moment before concentrating upon the still form of the Lyon, then, as swiftly as the flight of a hawk, it was gone, leaving the room reeking with the stench of evil.
Wolf dropped to his knees.
Aralorn slid across the floor to the small mess of charred bones, where Kisrah and Gerem already knelt.
“What is happening? Who is that man?”
Aralorn looked up to see Irrenna standing in the entranceway, clad only in her nightrobes. The lady’s gaze traveled around the room, pausing at the silent form of her husband before halting on Aralorn’s tear-streaked face.