Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

head. “No.”
    “Cain?”
    Wolf shook his head as well, but slowly. “Not exactly, no.”
    “Did he ask you to kill anything?” asked Kisrah.
    “No,” said Nevyn. “But what I did was worse.” He turned slightly to address everyone. “I knew that the spell was intended for the Lyon and that he was to be the bait that drew Aralorn and . . . Cain here.” His voice grew quieter. “I—I—I suggested it to him. Aralorn hadn’t come here for ten years. When he asked me what would make her return, I told him that I thought the only thing that would work was if someone died—if Henrick died.”
    He looked at Wolf, and his voice became guttural. “So he put a spell on the Lyon that only you could break. Black magic, he said, so that Kisrah would not know how to unwork the spell. I told him that you might not come, might not expose yourself for someone you didn’t know. So he decided to see if we could trap Aralorn in it as well. I called the baneshade here and set it to extend the spell to Aralorn.”
    “Do you know what he intended to do to Wolf—sorry, Cain—once he was here?” asked Aralorn, interested in what Geoffrey had told Nevyn. “After all, here he is . . . and no one has moved against him.”
    Nevyn shrugged. “Kisrah was to come upon Cain working black magic, and then he’d have to face justice at the ae’Magi’s hands.”
    Kisrah’s bells rang as he started in surprise. “My dear Nevyn, I don’t think I have the power to constrain or kill Cain—you haven’t seen what he can do.”
    “After unworking the spell on the Lyon, he would be in no shape to resist you.” He sat forward suddenly, a bitter twist to his mouth. “You can rot, Cain, for all I care. But Henrick has been more of a father to me than my own ever thought of being, and I helped to trap him. Any magic that binds a person as tightly as he is bound will be tricky to unwork at best. It has become increasingly obvious that Geoffrey doesn’t care if Henrick lives or dies—but I do. If I can help you, I will—if you die in the process, so much the better.”
    “All right,” said Wolf, and Aralorn eyed him sharply.
    “What did you do with the sword after you worked the spell?” asked Kisrah.
    Nevyn drew in a breath. “I gave it to Henrick the day he was enspelled; I met him at the stables as he was leaving to inspect the burnt-out croft. I told him a messenger brought it from Aralorn.” He lowered his eyes. “Henrick gave me his old campaign sword, told me to put it in the armory, and carried the one I’d given him.”
    With a casualness that spoke of more practice than Aralorn had suspected, he gestured with both hands, and a sword appeared on the floor in front of them. “This sword. You see why we knew that he would carry this one.”
    It wasn’t a ceremonial sword, nor was it ornate. But even Aralorn, who was admittedly not the best of sword judges, could see the care that had gone into its making. The pommel was wood, soft finished—nothing spectacular, but high quality nonetheless. It was the blade that attested to the care that had gone into the sword’s making. Countless folds of a repeating pattern marked the blade: a master-work of a talented swordsmith.
    Wolf knelt and ran a hand over it without touching. “There’s no magic to it now other than the power of a sharp blade.” He smiled. “It belonged to my father’s predecessor. I suspect that means it is yours now, Kisrah.”
    “No,” said the Archmage, sounding revolted. “If there’s no more harm in it, then it should be the Lyon’s, assuming you can fix this. He’s paid enough for it.”
    Once he’d called the blade, Nevyn had ignored it completely. Rising to his feet, he walked around Wolf to the bier.
    “He’ll hate me when he knows what I have done.” Nevyn stared at the Lyon’s body.
    “No,” said Aralorn gently. “He never expected any of his children to be perfect. Tell him what you have told us; he’ll understand. He liked Geoffrey, too.”
    Nevyn shook his head.
    “My turn,” said Gerem, flushing when his voice cracked.
    “Your turn,” agreed Aralorn.
    “I’ve been having strange dreams for a long time. Nightmares mostly.” He swallowed heavily. “I don’t really know where to start.”
    They waited patiently, giving him a chance to get his thoughts in order.
    Finally, he looked at Aralorn. “I don’t know what life here was like when you were a child, but to me it always seemed as if I was lost in a