Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

wouldn’t have stood a chance against such an opponent, but Sheen was war-trained and iron shod. His winter shoes were rough-bottomed like a file for better grip on ice and snow, and the damage they inflicted when propelled by a ton of battle-maddened stallion was not inconsiderable. He was canny, too, taking care to avoid the front end of the howlaa when he could.
    Aralorn found the energy somewhere to run, keeping clear of Sheen’s line of attack. The horse sported a dark slash down his ribs, but in the darkness she couldn’t see how bad it was. Squealing, he spun and kicked with his hind legs, but missed because the howlaa collapsed abruptly. Both Aralorn and Sheen drew to a halt, watching the creature warily. Its ribs rose once, twice, then stopped.
    The icelynx’s poison, thought Aralorn in relief, allowing her sword tip to drop.
    “It’s all right, Sheen,” she crooned to the snorting stallion, knowing her voice would calm him faster than anything else. “It’s dead now.”

THIRTEEN

    Wolf stood just inside the curtain of the bier room and wove a thin layer of darkness so that a casual observer would not see the light around the edges of the heavy fabric and realize that there was someone in the room with the Lyon. Green magic rose to his desire, if not his call, and the spell thickened with other magics to conceal his presence.
    Wolf waited, but when the lingering magic dissipated and did not return, he took on human form, called his staff, and used it to light the room. He walked to the Lyon and ran his fingers lightly over the still face.
    Aralorn had always laughed about how little she resembled the rest of the family, but Wolf could see the strong line of her jaw and the arrangement of her features in her father’s face. Take away the coloring and the size difference, and it was easy to tell that the Lyon was her sire. His skin was cool under Wolf’s touch.
    “This is your last night of rest, my lord,” Wolf murmured aloud. “I hope your dreaming was pleasant.”
    He took off his belt pouch and emptied the contents, mostly chalks, ink, and quills, on the bier next to the Lyon. It would take some time to set the spells that would undo the Lyon’s binding.

    Aralorn walked around the howlaa’s body, murmuring a soft reassurance to her stallion. After a long moment, Sheen lost his battle stance and nuzzled her hard enough to knock her back several steps. She examined the cuts in his side and sighed with relief. They were shallow, and the bleeding was already slowing. He wouldn’t be carrying a saddle for several days, but she thought if the cuts were cleaned and doctored, that would be the worst of it.
    Aralorn was torn between the dictates of a lifetime of training—tend to your horse first—and the knowledge that Gerem was still in danger. She compromised by turning Sheen into a small empty pen beside the stables and promising him better care as soon as she was done.
    The wind had shifted direction, bringing the scent of the dead howlaa through the stables. Horses thumped and whinnied, bringing grooms running to stand gawking over the body of the howlaa.
    Aralorn avoided them all and hurried to where Kisrah had Gerem pinned, picking up Ambris along the way and sheathing her.
    “He’s been trying for his knife,” said Kisrah, as soon as she was within conversation range. “Seeing how anxious he was to go for the howlaa, I thought the knife might be an equally bad idea.”
    “Can you hold him for a bit more?” she asked. “I’ll go for Nevyn.”
    Kisrah looked relieved. “Good thought. Nevyn’s a dreamwalker. He will know how to help your brother. I’ll enlist one of the stableboys—who seem to be finally figuring out something is going on out here—and take him up to Nevyn’s rooms if you’ll go ahead of us and tell him what to expect.”
    “Right,” said Aralorn, not bothering to address Kisrah’s assumption that Nevyn was the cure rather than the cause for Gerem’s condition. Kisrah had, by saving her brother, provided her satisfactory proof that he wasn’t involved any deeper than he had claimed. Gerem would be safe with Kisrah.
    She left them there, pushing herself to run though her shoulder protested the pounding gait. She had to go the long way around on her own human feet; she couldn’t jump back through the window in human form, and she wasn’t up to any more shapeshifting for a while.
    As she had hoped, Kisrah had come out the nearest side door—one that