Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

Aralorn. The wind howled through the trees, making Wolf’s cloak snap and crackle around her as he drew her under its shelter.
    “What is it, Lady?” he asked, the rough velvet of his voice penetrating the chaos that rang in her head.
    “The wind,” she whispered. “It’s the wind. I can hear them.”
    “ ‘Them’?” He frowned at her. “Who do you hear?”
    “Voices.” She saw the worry in his eyes and tried to explain better. “An effect of the howlaa’s gaze, I think.”
    He didn’t speak again; she drew comfort from the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms. Her hands weren’t sufficient to block out the noise, but they helped. She wasn’t aware of time’s passing, but when the wind finally died down, the sky was noticeably darker, and a light skiff of snow had begun to fall.
    She pulled away slowly, meeting Wolf’s worried gaze with one of her own. “In the Trader Clans, when a man goes insane, they say that he is listening to the wind. I have always wondered what the wind said.”
    Wolf nodded slowly. “I have heard that the Traders have another saying—may your road be clear, your belly full, and may you never get what you wish for.”
    Aralorn summoned a grin. “Just think of the legends I can spawn now . . . the woman who could hear the wind—it has a certain rhythm to it, don’t you think?”
    “More likely it would be the woman who died in the winter because she couldn’t quit talking long enough to get out of the cold,” replied Wolf repressively.
    Her smile warmed into something more genuine. “By all means, let us avoid such an ignominious fate.” She gestured grandly to the underbrush that covered the old trail. “Away, then, to the Lyon’s keep.”
    He bowed low. “Allow me to retrieve your knives first?”
    “Of course,” she said, as if she hadn’t forgotten them. She slipped the knives, cleaned by Wolf, back into their sheaths and strode into the woods.
    Her heroic stride was shortened somewhat by the waist-high aspen seedlings and drifts of snow nearly as high, but her spirits lifted all the same—how many people could claim to have met a howlaa and survived? Her optimism was greatly helped by the wind’s continued absence.

    By the time they reached the keep, the snowfall was no longer so light, and Aralorn was grateful to have Wolf’s eyes to depend upon rather than her own feebler senses—he had shifted back to lupine form as soon as the keep was in view. The sentries allowed her entrance through the gates without challenge.
    She took the time to shake out her cloak and dust the worst of the snow off Wolf before she opened the door into the keep. As the warmth of the hall fire touched her cheek, a red-tailed hawk landed lightly on her shoulder. Ignoring the surprised expressions of the servants, she transferred the bird to one of her arms, which were protected by the layers of clothing she wore, and handed off her cloak. The hawk climbed her arm and perched once more on her shoulder. Her sweaters had slipped to one side, leaving only a single layer of clothing between her skin and the hawk’s sharp talons.
    “You be careful,” she admonished her uncle. “I don’t want any more scars. I look odd enough in an evening gown as it is.”
    Halven flexed his talons lightly without gripping hard enough to hurt.
    “All right,” she said.
    The hawk unfurled his wings slightly to keep his balance as she strode through the keep. Wolf trailed silently behind. With the funeral preparations on indefinite hold, most of the visitors had left, and the servants were busy with dinner, so the back ways through the keep were empty—at least until they passed by a turret staircase near the mourning room.
    “Why does Mother let you bring your pets into the keep when we can’t even bring in our dogs? Is she frightened of you? Or do you have her bewitched like Nevyn says?” asked a young voice coolly.
    Aralorn took two steps back until she could see the area under the stairs clearly. In her hurry, she hadn’t seen the dim light cast by the oil lamp, but now that her attention had been drawn to it, she could see that a small study had been neatly tucked into the cramped space beneath the stairs. The keep was not overly large, and with a family the size of the Lyon’s brood, it took cleverness to find a place unclaimed by anyone else.
    The boy who’d spoken sat perched on a stool with a large book on his lap. He was on his way to gaining the height of the