Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

because she was thinking about what had just happened rather than paying attention to the conversation, she said more than she should have. “I think so, but he is dead now—so knowing who he is doesn’t do us much good.”
    “Who?” asked Irrenna from the head of the table, her voice sharp.
    Aralorn put down her knife and fork. “No one it would be healthy to accuse at this point. When I’m more certain of my facts, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
    Irrenna looked at her narrowly for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll hold you to your promise.”

ELEVEN

    The castle was quiet in the early-morning hour they’d chosen for their meeting. She and Wolf got to the bier room before dawn, more because she was too nervous to sleep longer than anything else. The guards had gotten used to her coming and going at odd hours, though this morning’s portal defender had given an odd look to the hen she’d stolen from the kitchen coop.
    Wolf told her that he might need it if he decided to break the spell right then. Wolf hadn’t had to catch the blasted thing, of course.
    She paced restlessly in the little room, taking a twisted path around the bier and the woven chicken basket, stopping now and again to touch her father.
    Wolf lay with his nose tucked between his forepaws, watching her pace. “They’ll be here soon enough. Stop that.”
    “Sorry”—she sat on her heels next to him and leaned against the wall—“I’m just anxious.”
    “More anxious than the hen,” he commented shortly, “and with less reason, too.”
    As if to emphasize his point, the hen clucked contentedly in its nest of hay. Aralorn stuck a sore finger in her mouth—the chicken had been upset when she grabbed it. “Nasty critter, anyhow.”
    “Who’s a nasty critter?” asked Gerem suspiciously, pulling the curtain aside so he could enter.
    “The hen,” said Aralorn, pointing at the villain with her chin.
    Gerem peered at the battered crate. “What’d you bring a hen here for? Mother’s going to pitch a fit!”
    “To free your Father,” replied Wolf.
    Gerem came as close to jumping out of his skin as anyone Aralorn had ever seen. Three shades whiter than he’d been when he came in, he stared at Wolf.
    “I see Kisrah informed him completely,” murmured Wolf sarcastically, wagging his tail gently as he returned the stare. “How much do you want to bet we get to inform him what method we’re using as well.”
    “We needed him here,” warned Aralorn. “I don’t think that we can complain how it was done.” She stood up and turned to her brother. “Gerem, I’d like to introduce you to my—to my Wolf. At one point in time, he went by the name of Cain—son of Geoffrey ae’Magi. I’d suggest you be polite to him; at present, he appears to be the best chance we have of resurrecting Father.”
    “The old ae’Magi’s son is a shapechanger?”
    Aralorn blinked at him. One of the things her brother didn’t know, apparently, was Cain ae’Magison’s reputation. She supposed that made a certain amount of sense. Gerem had been a young boy when Cain dropped out of public view.
    “Sometimes,” agreed Aralorn. “I find it a good thing that he takes after his mother’s side of the family.”
    “Dead?” asked Wolf. “Of course, Father’s dead as well.”
    She rolled her eyes at him. “Do you have to go out of your way to intimidate everyone? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all work together this morning?”
    “Ah,” said Kisrah, entering the room rather languidly.
    He had to duck around the curtain to make certain it didn’t bend the pale pink feather that was set jauntily into his elaborate hairstyle. Wearing a three-foot-long feather was not something Aralorn would have done in his place; but then, she wouldn’t have worn pink with scarlet and emerald either. The brass bells on the heels of his shoes were nice, though—if impractical.
    “I thought I would be the first one here. I see you brought the chicken. Marvelous. I thought I might have to do it.”
    “We ought to make you do it,” said Wolf thoughtfully, “if only to see what the chickens would do when they heard those bells.”
    “Unkind,” admonished Kisrah. “To intimate that I would risk scuffing these boots chasing chickens—what do you think I studied magic for, dear man?”
    “They are joking,” said Aralorn, watching Gerem’s face. There were some benefits to Kisrah’s three-foot-long feather—it was hard to be frightened in the presence