Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

warm as midsummer’s eve.”
    Hmm, thought Aralorn. Maybe Correy didn’t come to protect me after all.
    Falhart shook his head as he dismounted also. In tones of apologetic despair, he addressed the priestess. “Smooth-tongued demon, isn’t he? I’m sorry, Tilda. It’s my fault. I taught him all I knew.”
    “That took the better part of supper,” confided Correy without releasing the priestess’s hand. “And only that long because he was eating most of the time. It’s amazing the man ever managed to get married in the first place.”
    Aralorn slipped off Sheen and dropped his reins to the ground.
    “It’s obvious that he wasn’t teaching you manners,” Aralorn muttered in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “or you would have introduced me by now.”
    “Forgive me, O Small-but-Sharp-Tongued-One,” said Falhart, taking Aralorn’s hand gallantly. “I have neglected my duties as older brother. Tilda, allow me to present my sister Aralorn. Aralorn, this is Tilda, priestess of the death goddess.”
    “The shapeshifter,” murmured Tilda thoughtfully.
    “The mercenary,” Aralorn murmured back.
    They exchanged cheerful grins. Then the priestess turned to Gerem, standing quietly beside his mount.
    “Gerem,” said the priestess, “well come. I haven’t seen you since last summer.”
    Aralorn watched Gerem’s face closely, but apparently Nevyn had no objection to the death goddess, for Gerem’s smile was genuine, lighting his eyes as it touched his lips. “I’m sorry, Lady, but Correy made us stay home so he could have you to himself.”
    “To what do I owe this visit? Would you like to come in?” Tilda gestured to her house.
    Correy shook his head. “Today’s an official visit to the priestess, I’m afraid. Aralorn thinks Ridane might be able to shed some light on the matter with Father.”
    The priestess lost none of her warmth but nodded understandingly. “I was not surprised when I was told he was not dead—Ridane had said nothing of his death to me. I don’t know if She knows any more than you do, but you may certainly ask. Would you go into the temple? I will meet you inside.”
    Aralorn followed her brothers to the main entrance of the temple. Correy started to open the rough-hewn, obviously temporary door, then hesitated.
    “Aralorn, I think it might be best if you leave your wolf outside,” he said.
    “The wolf is one of the death goddess’s creatures,” said Gerem unexpectedly. “I doubt the goddess will object—though her priestess might.”
    Wolf settled the matter by slipping through the narrow opening and into the temple.
    Aralorn shrugged. “I suspect this temple has been infested by everything from rats to cows over the last hundred years. One animal more or less will make little difference.”
    Correy shook his head but opened the door farther and allowed the rest of them to pass. As Aralorn moved by him, he caught her arm.
    “Don’t be fooled by Tilda’s friendliness. The death goddess has a very real presence here. Be careful how far you choose to push Her.”
    Aralorn patted him gently on the top of his head—she had to stand on her toes to do it. “Go teach Lord Kisrah how to cast a light spell, baby brother. I’m not as uncivilized as it sometimes appears.”
    Brushing by him, she walked into the entrance hall. It was not very impressive as such things go. Although it was large enough for twoscore people to stand without feeling crowded, there was still a multitude of evidence of the temple’s long spell of neglect. High above, the vaulted ceiling showed white plaster and gaping holes where frescoed wolves and owls once frolicked. The floor had been pulled up and the usable flagstone piled to one side. On the other side, several large and crudely made benches lined the wall.
    Though there was no sign of a fire, the room was remarkably warm. When the men began to toss their cloaks and gloves on the benches, Aralorn did the same.
    As she dropped her gloves on top of her cloak, the creak of door hinges drew her attention to the far end of the room. The doors set in the wall were neither makeshift nor temporary; only years produced such a fine patina in bronze. They swung slowly open with a ponderousness in keeping with their hoary age.
    Dressed in robes of black and red, Tilda stepped through the doorway onto the narrow platform set between the doors and the three stairs down to where Aralorn and her brothers waited. They approached the priestess