Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

would be Wolf said at last.
    His voice was unexpected, soft rather than the hoarse rasp that she associated with Wolf.
    “Yes.”
    Aralorn looked for the owner of the second voice, but she couldn’t see him. Only his words echoed in her ears, without inflection or tone. It could have been anyone who spoke. “I thought you might like to see her before I disposed of her.”
    The boy shrugged. “I cannot imagine why you thought that. May I return to my studies now, Father?”
    The vision faded, and Aralorn found herself taking another step down.
    “Even as a child he was cold. Impersonal. Unnatural. Evil,” whispered something out of the darkness of the stairwell.
    Aralorn shook her head, denying the words. She knew better than anyone the emotions Wolf could conceal equally well behind a blank face or the silver mask he usually wore. If anything, he was more emotional than most people. She opened her mouth to argue, when a scream distracted her. She stepped down, toward the sound, into blackness that swallowed her.
    She came to herself naked and cold; her breath rose above her in a puff of mist. She tried to move to conserve her warmth, but iron chains bound her where she was. Cool metal touched her throat, and Wolf pressed the blade down until her flesh parted.
    He smiled sweetly as the knife cut slowly deeper. “Hush now, this won’t hurt.”
    She screamed, and his smile widened incongruously, catching her attention.
    It wasn’t Wolf’s smile. She knew his smile: It was as rare as green diamonds, not practiced as this was. Fiercely, she denied what she saw.
    Under her hot stare, her tormentor’s yellow eyes darkened to blue. When he spoke a second time, it was in the ae’Magi’s dulcet tones. “Come, my son, it is time for you to learn more.”
    “No.”
    Something shifted painfully in Aralorn’s head with rude suddenness and jerked her from the table to somewhere behind the ae’Magi, whose knife pressed against the neck of a pale woman who was too frightened even to moan.
    Truth, thought Aralorn, feeling the rightness in this dream.
    The boy stood apart from his father, no longer so young as her earlier vision of him. Already, his face had begun to show signs of matching the Archmage’s, feature for feature—except for his eyes.
    “Come,” repeated the ae’Magi. “The death you deal her will be much easier than the one I will give her. It will also be easier for you, Cain, if you do as I ask.”
    “No.” The boy who had been Cain before he was her Wolf spoke softly, without defiance or deference.
    The ae’Magi smiled and walked to his son, caressing his face with the hand that still held the bloody knife. Some part of Aralorn tensed as she saw the Archmage’s caressing hand. Bits and pieces of things Wolf had told her coalesced with the sexuality of the ae’Magi’s gesture.
    “As you will,” said the sorcerer softly. “I, at least, will enjoy it more.”
    Rage suffused her with hatred of a man she knew to be dead. She stepped forward, as if she could alter events long past, and the scene changed again.
    The boy stood on the tower parapet; a violent storm raged overhead. He was older now, with a man’s height, though his shoulders were still narrow with youth. Cold rain poured down, and Wolf shivered.
    “It’s power, Cain. Don’t you want it?”
    Slowly, the boy lifted his arms to embrace the storm.
    But that taint of wrongness had returned, and Aralorn called upon her magic, girded in the truth of natural order, to pull it right. She had no more magic than the average hedgewitch, but it seemed to be enough for the job. Once more, the scene shifted subtly, as if a farseeing glass were twisted into focus.
    “It’s power, Cain. Don’t you want it?”
    “It comes too fast, Father. I can’t control it.” Wolf spoke the words without the inflection that would have added urgency to them.
    “I will control the magic.” When Wolf appeared unmoved, the ae’Magi’s voice softened to an ugly whisper. “I can assure you, you won’t like the alternative.”
    Even in the storm-darkened night, Aralorn could see Wolf’s face blanch, though his expression never altered. “Very well, then.” There was something quiet and purposeful in his voice that Aralorn wondered at. Something that only someone who knew him well would have heard.
    Wolf bent his head, and Aralorn was aware of the currents of magic he drew. The Archmage closed his hands on his son’s shoulders; Wolf flinched slightly