Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

with varying degrees of wariness, reverence, and enthusiasm. When Correy stopped several feet from the stairs, the rest of them did as well, leaving the priestess above them.
    “You are come to ask about the Lyon.” The priestess’s voice had lost the hills accent and the warmth. Her earthy beauty was in no way faded, but it seemed out of place.
    Aralorn thought it wasn’t Tilda speaking at all. A shiver ran through her. She could never have stood for such a thing; the last ae’Magi had come close to controlling her thoughts. Even as part of her shuddered in distaste, she felt a flash of awe—and satisfaction. This priestess was a priestess in truth; even her small store of green magic told her that much. She might really be able to help the Lyon.
    “My father lies with the seeming of death,” said Correy, when no one else spoke. “Can you free him?”
    She seemed to consider it a moment, and Aralorn held her breath. Finally, the priestess shook her head. “No. There are limits on the things that I control. This is no death curse, though he may die of it, and I can do little but speed his death. That I will not do without reason.”
    “How long—” Aralorn’s voice cracked, and she had to try again. “How long before he dies of the magic?”
    “A fortnight more will the spell hold stable. Until that time, he comes not unto me.”
    “Two weeks,” said Aralorn softly to herself.
    “As I said,” replied the priestess.
    “Do you know of the Dreamer?” asked Aralorn, drawing surprised looks from her brothers.
    The priestess turned her head to the side, considering.
    “The creature that sleeps in the glass desert,” Aralorn clarified further.
    “Ah,” said the priestess. “Yes . . . I had forgotten that name ...”
    “Has it awakened?”
    The priestess hesitated. “I would not know of it, unless it killed—and that was not its way. It incited others to do its killing.”
    Falhart spoke for the first time. “Do you know anything about the farm that was burned to the ground?”
    “Yes. Death visited there and was caught to pay the price of the Lyon’s sleep.”
    “You mean,” said Gerem, with a tension that was strong enough to attract Aralorn’s interest, “something was killed there. That death was used in the magic that ensorcelled my father.”
    The priestess nodded. “As I said.”
    “Is Geoffrey ae’Magi dead, or does his spirit attend the living?” asked Aralorn.
    “He is dead,” said Tilda. “But in the way of such men, much of him lives on in the hearts of those who loved him.”
    She swayed alarmingly. Disregarding his wariness for the goddess in concern for the woman, Correy jumped up the short flight of stairs and wrapped an arm around her waist.
    “Here, now,” he said, helping her sit on the floor.
    “Did you get the answers you needed?” she asked. “She left without warning me. Usually, I can tell when She’s ready to leave, and I can give notice of the last question. Otherwise, you are left with the most important thing unanswered.”
    “It was fine,” said Aralorn thoughtfully. She would rather have had a simple yes or no to her last question, but she hadn’t really expected as much help as they’d gotten. Usually priests and priestesses were much less forthcoming and a lot more obscure when they did tell you something.
    “Aralorn”—Tilda got to her feet and shook out her robes briskly, obviously putting off whatever weakness the goddess’s visit had left her with—“I wonder if you would mind speaking with me in private for a bit.”
    Since Aralorn had been debating how to phrase the same request, she nodded immediately. “Of course.” Last night she’d thought of another thing that Ridane could help her with.
    Tilda walked down the stairs and, with a shooing motion, said, “Go along now and wait for us in the cottage. There are some fresh scones on the table, help yourselves.”
    Aralorn’s brothers left without a protest. As he turned to close the door behind them, Gerem shot a calculating look at Aralorn. When she smiled and waved, he frowned and pulled the door shut with a bang that reverberated in the large, mostly empty room.
    “He doesn’t trust me,” commented Aralorn, shaking her head.
    “With Nevyn around, you’re lucky anyone does,” said Tilda in reply.
    “For someone who lives several hours from the hold, you know an awful lot about my family.” Aralorn rubbed the itchy place behind Wolf’s ears.
    The death goddess’s