Aralorn laughed, grateful for the change of topic. “I missed you, too, Puff.”
Correy gave a crack of laughter. “I’d forgotten that name. None of the youngsters got nicknames once you’d gone.”
“Maybe,” said Freya, her eyes twinkling as she folded her arms and puffed out her cheeks in the manner that had given her the once-hated appellation, “I didn’t miss everything about your absence.”
“If I remember Irrenna’s letters correctly, your child is due this spring, right?” asked Aralorn.
Freya nodded and started to say more, but Irrenna, emerging from whatever social emergency had been keeping her at a distant corner of the room, called Aralorn’s name.
Hurrying forward, Irrenna pressed a kiss on Aralorn’s cheek. “Come, dear, the alcove is empty, so you can pay your respects to your father.”
Although she knew the smile on her face didn’t change, Aralorn felt a cold chill of grief. “Yes, Irrenna. Thank you.”
She followed her stepmother’s graceful form through the crowd. They paused here and there for introductions—Irrenna had taken refuge from her grief in the social amenities called for at any large gathering.
Wolf ventured ahead and found a corner near the black curtain where he was unlikely to be stepped on and settled quietly. Aralorn murmured something polite, squeezed Irrenna’s hand, and continued to the curtained alcove on her own.
The black velvet was heavy, and it shut out a great deal of the sound from the outer room. Incense burned from plates set at the head and foot of the bier, leaving the room smelling incongruously exotic. She let the curtain settle behind her before stepping farther into the little chamber.
It was unadorned except for three torches that were ensconced on the stone walls, sending flickering light to touch all but the narrowest shadows. On the opposite side of the round room was a thick wooden door that was used to take the body to the burial grounds outside the keep. It was a small chamber, with space for only eight or ten mourners to cluster around the gray stone bier that held sway here, a private place.
The man on the stone slab didn’t look like her father, though he wore the same state robes she had seen him in at the Rethian king’s coronation. Aralorn’s lips twitched when she remembered he’d been thieving sweet cakes out of the kitchens. Green and brown velvet embroidered with gold. She touched the rich cloth lightly with her fingertips. He had been an earthy man; it was fitting that his burial clothing reflected that.
“You should have died in battle, Father,” she whispered. “Sickness is such an inglorious way to die. The minstrels are already singing ballads of your ferocity and cunning in battle, did you know that? They’ll make up a suitably nasty foe to have dealt your mortal wound just to satisfy their artistic souls.”
The stone of the raised bier was cold on her hips, surprising her because she hadn’t realized she had stepped closer. “I should have come sooner—or stopped you at court when I saw you there. I’m a spy, did you know that? What would you have done if the scullery maid, or the groom who held your horse, shifted into me? Would you have had me tried as a traitor to Reth? Sianim’s mercenaries aren’t Reth’s enemies until they are paid to be. You know I would never betray Reth’s interests for my adopted home.”
To Aralorn, touch was as much a part of talking as the words themselves. Almost without conscious thought, she bent forward, cupping her hand on his flaccid cheek . . . and stilled.
She had touched dead people before—a lot of them. She had even touched a Uriah or two, who were dead-but-alive. Her shapeshifter blood did more than allow her to change shape and light fires; it made her sensitive to the patterns of life and death, decay and rebirth.
Beneath her fingertips, the pulse of life was still present—and it didn’t have the fragility of someone near death. Despite his appearance, her father seemed to be merely sleeping, though he did so without breath or color in his face.
“Father?” she said softly, her pulse beginning to race with possibilities. “What is this that you have gotten yourself into?”
She searched for sorcery, human or green, but her magic found nothing. She began to sing softly in her mother’s tongue. Singing allowed her to focus her magic, letting her see more than just the Lyon’s still form.
She had never been hungry for the power that magic could bring, so she’d never done much besides learn how to reshape her face, change into a few animal forms, and open locked doors. This was entirely different, but she had to try something.
She struggled for a while before she was able to discern the pulses and rhythms of his life; more difficult still was finding the underlying organization that was at the heart of all life. Just as she thought she found the Lyon’s pattern, something dark bled through. She sought it, but it faded before her searching, as if it had never been. Deciding it might have been a fluke of her inexperience, Aralorn returned to her original search. As soon as her concentration was elsewhere, the darkness returned.
This time it caught at her magic as if it were a living thing. Startled but not alarmed, Aralorn stopped singing. But the connection between her magic and the shadow didn’t dissolve. Creeping up through her magic, the darkness touched her. As it did, pain swept through her, raking her with acid claws.
“Wolf,” she croaked, meaning to call out, but her voice was only a hoarse whisper as she fell to her knees.
Lying just outside the curtained alcove, Wolf listened to Aralorn’s singing and wished he couldn’t feel the stirring of green magic at her call. He didn’t know what she was doing, but he sent a thread of silence around the curtain, hiding the sound of her music from everyone except him.
No one needed to know that she called magic, not when so many here disapproved of her. He’d seen the looks that Aralorn had ignored. She chose to believe that they did not hurt her, but he knew better.
The pads of his feet tingled, and the air thickened with the sharp, clear presence of Aralorn’s magic. He shifted irritably but stilled when the singing stopped. Abruptly, Wolf surged to his feet, trying to put a name to the change he sensed. Then, faintly, he heard her call his name.
He bolted under the curtain to find Aralorn curled on her side, and the magic in the air so strong it almost choked him—not Aralorn’s magic; hers never stank of evil.
“Eavakin nua Sovanish ven,” he spat, straddling Aralorn as if his physical presence could ward off the attack of magic. At the end of his speaking, the dark magic reluctantly faded back from Aralorn. He shaped himself into his human form: He could work magic whatever shape he took, but there were some spells that he needed his hands for.
“Kevribeh von!” he commanded as he gestured. Rage twisted his voice as it could not touch his fire-scored face. “She is mine. You will not have her.”
As suddenly as it had come, all trace of the magic that had attacked her disappeared. The chamber should have retained a residue of it—he could detect the traces of his own spellwork—but the shadow magic was gone as if it had never been.
Wolf moved aside as Aralorn began to push herself up.
“Wolf,” she said urgently, “look at him. Look at my father and tell me what you see.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, crouching down beside her.
“Fine,” she said dismissively, though at the moment she seemed to be having trouble sitting up. He helped her. “Please, Wolf. Look at my father.”
With a curt nod, Wolf turned and approached the bier.
Aralorn wrapped her arms around herself and waited for his answer. When Wolf stiffened in surprise, she clenched her hands into fists. He set his right hand over the Lyon’s chest as he made a delicate motion with his left.
Remembering what had happened to her when she had used magic, Aralorn said, “Careful.”