Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

was sent to Aralorn, as the family’s own green mage. Perhaps it would have been suggested that shapeshifter magic had done this.”
    “You think this was set to draw me here?” asked Aralorn.
    He shrugged. “I don’t know. But it is significant that the Lyon is held by black magic when his daughter is”—he paused—“has a friend who has the reputation of being the last black mage—the rest being controlled by the ae’Magi’s power over them. I think that it is further interesting that the baneshade was inactive until you walked in—and it has been after you ever since.”
    “What would it want with me?” asked Aralorn.
    “I believe the spell that it attempted to place on you when we first discovered it is the same one that binds your father. Perhaps the person who engineered all of this decided he wanted more certain bait.”
    “Bait for you.” She considered it.
    “Someone would have to want you very badly to go to this much trouble,” commented Halven.
    “Yes,” admitted Wolf. “Quite a few people do.”
    Despite the seriousness of the subject, Aralorn grinned. “Every woman wants to find herself a man who is desired by so many others.”
    “Why were they so careful to make certain the Lyon lives?” asked Halven, ignoring Aralorn. “It would have been just as easy to kill him. Aralorn would have come to pay her last respects.”
    “Perhaps the one who set the spell likes him,” replied Wolf, and Aralorn knew he was thinking of Nevyn. “Sometimes, Aralorn, the most obvious answer—”
    His speech stopped as he felt the ripple of his hold spell dissolving. He shifted his gaze to see what had happened just in time to observe the last of the daylight fade and the shadow flow across the stone floor. Wolf didn’t have a chance to gather magic, or even call out a warning—the baneshade was moving too fast . . .
    A surge of green magic, his own magic, flared suddenly. There was so much of it that the whole room glowed with the unearthly midnight blue light that flowed down his staff like wax from a candle.
    The room looked sinister and nightmarish, full of darkness and deep shadows. At Aralorn’s feet, a bare handspan from her heel, the baneshade hissed, glowing ice blue—lighter by far than anything in the room—held in place by Wolf’s magic.
    Aralorn, quick acting and quicker witted, jumped away from it, stopping only when she touched the wall. Wolf began belatedly seeking dominion of the magic before it could do anything more. Although its initial action was beneficial, Wolf didn’t want to chance harming Aralorn or Halven.
    As he reached for it, he discovered it was already weaving itself into a pattern of destruction that allowed him no room to gain control. The light began to concentrate around the baneshade, flowing from the corners of the room until the cool white illumination from the staff dominated once more.
    Glowing a deep indigo, his magic appeared viscous as it surrounded the creature, consolidating in a thick mass near the floor. There was a moment of stasis, then a fog began to rise from the blue-black base, a fog that had the odd effect of illumination and concealment at the same time.
    By the curious radiance of the fog, the baneshade appeared to have a solid form, but it didn’t last long enough to be certain. Wolf caught a glimpse of fine downy fur before the outer surface began to bubble and dissolve with a terrible stench that reminded him of something long dead at the first touch of the fog. Flesh and bones were revealed in turn, each dissolving with a speed that testified to the power of the magic that consumed it. In the end, there was nothing left but the vaporous mist of darkness at Wolf’s feet and a malodorous scent that permeated the room.
    In that moment, when the destruction was complete, Wolf tried again to dominate his magic. Cold sweat ran down his back, and for a moment, all he could see were flames melting stone, destructive magic only he could call tearing apart everything in its path . He blinked and set the memory aside with the conviction that someone was about to die. His magic was good at killing. He needed coolness that fear would interfere with if he was going to keep everyone safe, keep Aralorn safe.
    Frantically, he fought for control, barely aware of the pain when he fell to his knees. He had to stop it before it hurt Aralorn; he felt certain that if it touched—
    Aralorn’s firm hands locked on his shoulder as the cloud whipped