Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

stairs, Tilda leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. “We wish you nothing but the best.”
    Wolf drew back, startled at the gesture. He started to say something, but shook his head instead. Without a word or an excess bit of magic, he shifted to his lupine form.
    Aralorn looked at the priestess with full approval. “Now, do you still want me to shift for you?”
    Tilda shook her head with a sigh. “It’s not necessary. I had no idea that he was anything other than a wolf.”
    Aralorn laughed. “Neither did my uncle the shapeshifter—and we can usually tell our kind. Hold a moment.” She knew her change wasn’t as graceful or impressive as Wolf’s, but it was swift. She chose the icelynx because she’d been working on it and because someday she might have to spend some time at the temple: She didn’t want Tilda to be looking too hard at strange mice.
    She arched her back to rid herself of the final tingles of the change. The shadows held fewer secrets in this form, but there were fewer colors as well. Staring at the priestess’s face, Aralorn could see a hint of satisfaction in Tilda’s eyes.
    No, Aralorn thought, this should be a fair exchange of favors. She lay down on the floor and began tentatively to hide herself within the icelynx’s instincts. She was better with the mouse—and it was less dangerous that way, but she trusted that Wolf would stop her if she lost control of her creation. When she had done what she could to disguise herself, she waited for ten heartbeats, then allowed herself to reemerge.
    Hiding so deeply always left her with a headache to remind her why she seldom went to such extremes. She stood up, shook herself briskly, then shifted back to human form.
    “Well,” asked Aralorn, rubbing her arms briskly, “could you tell I was not the real thing?”
    Tilda took a deep breath and loosened her shoulders with a rolling motion. “When you first changed, yes, but for a moment while you lay still, no.”
    “I think then you should be all right. Most of the shapeshifters don’t care to get that deep into their creations,” said Aralorn. “There’s always the chance that the shaper might get lost in his shape.”
    “Thank you,” said Tilda. “I found that to be most . . . enlightening.”
    Me, too, thought Aralorn, who had learned that a cleric mage was going to be harder to get her mouse shape past than human mages were—but not impossible.

    Correy edged his horse even with Sheen, but waited until Aralorn made eye contact before speaking. “We only have two weeks to break this spell.”
    Aralorn nodded. “I think it’s time to really talk with the ae’Magi. I may know some things he doesn’t. Perhaps together we might think of something.”
    “Why did you ask the question about the Dreamer?” queried Gerem, pushing forward until he was on Falhart’s off side. “It is just a story.”
    Though her other brothers rode coursers, bred for speed and ease of gait, Gerem’s horse, like Sheen, was bred for war. Younger than Sheen, with a rich sorrel coat, there was something in the horse’s carriage that reminded Aralorn strongly of her own stallion. His nostrils were flared, and his crest bowed, though Gerem rode with a light hand—Sheen did the same when she was upset.
    There was something about the deliberately casual tone combined with his horse’s agitation that planted an odd thought in her head. She sat back, and Sheen halted abruptly, forcing the men to stop also for politeness’s sake. Gerem appeared surprised at her reaction to his question, but she didn’t allow that to speed her tongue. Thirteen, she thought, Gerem is thirteen.
    “How,” she said finally, “have you been sleeping at night lately? Have you been having bad dreams?”
    A muscle twitched in his cheek. “And if I have?”
    “Are they dreams of our father?” she speculated softly. “Perhaps you dreamed of his death before he actually fell?”
    Gerem paled.
    “Aralorn,” said Falhart sharply, “pick on someone up to your fighting weight. Anyone can have seemings.”
    “Not seemings,” said Aralorn firmly, not removing her eyes from Gerem’s face. “They felt like reality, didn’t they?”
    Without warning, Gerem slipped his feet out of his stirrups and dropped to the ground. He made it into the bushes before they all heard the sounds of his being violently ill.
    Guilt caused Aralorn more than a twinge of discomfort as she dismounted as well.
    Gerem reappeared looking, if