Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

vase, but there was nothing else to hide behind. If Kisrah saw her, she would be forced to run in the open.
    The distance wouldn’t have been a problem if he hadn’t been a mage. Wizards had rather abrupt methods of dealing with mice, methods that could leave her no time to run.
    It was as Aralorn’s vivid imagination came up with unusual and painful ways in which a wizard could dispose of a mouse that Kisrah came into the room. And, of course, if she managed to get herself killed—Wolf would die, too. The irony of that situation didn’t escape her. She sat very still in the shadow of the vase, not even allowing her itchy whiskers to twitch.
    Kisrah seemed to be taking longer to get to bed than he needed to: tidying up the already painfully neat room, refolding an extra quilt at the end of his bed, and messing around in the wardrobe. As if, thought Aralorn hopefully as she cowered behind her vase, he was dreading facing his dreams.
    Without his public mask, he looked even more tired than he had earlier. In the harsh illumination of the light spell he’d summoned rather than lighting the candles, he looked ten years older than he was.
    “Gods, what a mess,” he said tiredly. As he was staring at the perfectly tidy bed when he spoke, Aralorn assumed he wasn’t talking about the room.
    He stared at the bed a moment longer, then ran a hand through his artfully styled hair. With a sigh, he stripped out of his flamboyant clothes, leaving on only a pair of purple cotton half trousers.
    Clothing in hand, he approached Aralorn’s chosen hiding place. The wardrobe swayed slightly as he opened the doors and hung his garments, and Aralorn wished that it were summer so there would at least have been some flowers in the vase to offer more cover. A taller wardrobe would have been nice, one that didn’t leave the top level with Kisrah’s gaze. She didn’t so much as twitch a whisker until he turned away.
    A fire had been lit shortly after Aralorn had arrived in the room, and some of the winter dampness that plagued old stone buildings had left the air. Kisrah pulled a chair near the fireplace in front of the merry flames.
    She gave a relieved sigh and tried not to stare at him; some people, most of the mageborn, could feel it when they were the center of attention. He gazed deeply into the rose-and-orange light of the burning pine and never turned his head toward the vase with the mouse settled behind it.
    In spite of her precarious position, the warmth of the fire had Aralorn half-asleep herself before Kisrah finally pulled back the bedclothes, climbed between the muslin sheets, and put out his magelight. She shook herself gingerly, careful that her claws made no sound on the polished wood.
    The lack of Kisrah’s magelight was no handicap to her rodent eyes—the dying embers of the fire provided more than enough light to see with. The rhythms of Kisrah’s breathing slipped slowly into sleep. Aralorn waited intently.
    She couldn’t have pinpointed exactly what first alerted her to the second presence in the room. It could have been a slight sound or the fur on her back ruffling as if a chill wind had blown into the room, though the air remained still and comfortable.
    She took her eyes from the bed in time to see a pale mist settle before the fire. Slowly, it condensed into a familiar form. The voice was so soft she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t been so close . . . perhaps she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t met the howlaa. It felt like that, sounds heard without her ears.
    You were not to come here, Kisrah. Someone will connect you with the deed, then where will you be? Aralorn trembled with utter terror as she watched Wolf’s presumably dead father. His lips did not move, though she heard his voice clearly.
    What have you done, my old friend? You said the spell was for Cain, to hold him without harm. It was Kisrah who spoke. She dared a glance at the bed, but Kisrah lay unmoving; to all appearances he was sleeping deeply.
    And who would have used it on him? I was the most powerful mage in the world, and he destroyed me. Which of my friends should I have sent against him? You would have done it had I asked—but you would not have succeeded. Geoffrey’s voice was soft. Should I have let him kill you, too? I did what I had to. This way, no one is harmed.
    There was a short pause, then Kisrah said, Why black magic? And why bring others into it, to blacken their souls as well?
    If it were not