He believed Zemyra's account of what happened.
And, yet, he didn't.
The heightened senses of his wolf told him she wasn't lying. But his wolf's instinct screamed deceit. In all the years since he'd been changed into a shifter, Sterling had never encountered such a sharp conflict between the two.
All of it made Zemyra a complicated contradiction that fascinated him.
The thundering of her heart had betrayed flashes of vulnerability and fear that made Sterling ache to soothe away. And yet, there was no doubt in his mind that she was far from weak and fragile.
Her uncertainty came wrapped up with steel-edged determination that he would never bet against.
The clash of delicate and dangerous in Zemyra intrigued Sterling far more than it should.
But he didn't have time to be intrigued. Sterling needed to figure out what was off about her story. He needed to figure out what she was hiding. Because he was certain her secret was the key to solving the mystery, he'd trudged up Mount Acaelum to unravel.
By the time to Sterling made it back to Benhalle, he was no closer to an answer than he'd been standing outside her shed.
The temperature, however, had dropped. The unseasonably warm afternoon cooled off sharply and the early evening chill shivered through his cloak. Sterling picked up his pace and headed for the center of the village.
Benhalle was small but unexpectedly lively. The last trading post before the wild, dangerous trip up the mountain. It boasted a thriving cluster of merchant shops ringing the village green and two flourishing taverns.
Sterling had taken a room at the Dragon's Aerie on the north side of the green. Named for the drakes of the Mountain Clan who inhabited the other side of Mount Acaelum, it was the favored taproom of the locals. And the name seemed an auspicious omen, considering how much time he'd spent with dragon shifters the past few months.
He'd gleaned quite a bit of information from the gossips and storytellers who gathered there in the evenings.
A warm fire and small crowd of regulars greeted him when he walked in the door. He settled onto a bench with a sigh, grateful when Colben, the owner, immediately set a tankard in front of him.
"Did'ya find what you was looking for?" Colben asked with a knowing smirk.
Sterling shook his head and answered honestly. "I have no idea."
Colben nodded sagely. "She's a strange one, isn't she?"
An angry retort formed a ball in Sterling's throat, but he forced back the urge to defend Zemyra. He barely knew the woman. Arguing against the general view of her would only alienate villagers.
And, as long as she kept lying to him, the locals were the only source of information he had.
She'd given him no reason to defend her.
No matter how much logic and rationale he applied, however, it didn't seem to dampen Sterling's instinct to tell Colben he was wrong about her.
So instead of opening his mouth and risk making things worse, Sterling took a hearty sip of his beer and stayed silent.
Unfortunately, Colben was in the mood to chat, and settled on the bench beside him.
"So, did she have any of the answers you been seeking?"
Right.
Sterling obviously wasn't getting away without giving the tavern keeper some morsel of gossip. In a small village like this, rumor was a currency all its own. Being the first with a new tidbit to share was a guaranteed way to keep the taproom full for a few days.
Gritting his teeth, Sterling hung his head and put on the morose face of someone who'd been denied his heart's desire.
"Nope," he sighed dejectedly. "Her story was exactly like the other Taken. Nothing new or different."
Which was true. It was only Sterling's instincts that made him think there was something more than what she'd told him.
That, beneath the raw pain of her ordeal, Zemyra hid an even darker secret.
The raw pain.
His grip tightened painfully around the hefty tankard and Sterling fought to remain outwardly gloomy and pathetic. Because inside, the bright satisfaction of epiphany burned through him.
It wasn't the details of Zemyra's story that bothered him. It was in the way she shared it.
Sterling kept his eyes on his drink, head still down, trying hard not to show any hint of the sudden revelation.
Thankfully, Colben and a couple of the regulars began swapping all the tales they'd heard of those Taken by the Mirror King. No one paid much notice to Sterling, once they ascertained he had no new rumors to start.
Which was just fine with him. He didn't want to call any more attention to Zemyra. Her life was already difficult enough. There was no reason to add to her notoriety.
Being one of the Taken set her apart. As did the whispers of the luck and healing her blankets bestowed.
Sterling didn't want to add his suspicions to the rumor mill.
He understood being different. Understood how dangerous it could be to have one's darkest secrets exposed. So he kept his mouth shut, sipping at his ale and eating the stew the barmaid brought him. All the while, he replayed his conversation with Zemyra in his mind.
Her story had been just like the others Sterling had collected on his meandering trip from the Grey Tower all the way up to the last bastion of civilization.
Along his way up the Winding Road, he'd talked with a handful of men, women, and children who'd been taken over the years.
They'd shared the same details.
The dark cavern and the Crystal Mirror. The disturbingly kind man in a crown. His disappointment and the bag of coins. The Ice Trolls who brought them back down the mountain.
But when they spoke of their experiences, they all possessed the same glazed, distant expression and the same flat tone.
As if recounting a tale that happened to a stranger. There'd been almost no emotion in any part of their story. Until they spoke about returning home and reuniting with loved ones.
Only then had there been smiles or tears or any hint of feelings at all.
But there had been none of that flat, blank recitation of facts in Zemyra's tale. In fact, her emotions had been real and strong and painfully intense.
Like she was trying to play it up.
Like she'd heard the details of the story, perhaps from the same tales Colben currently regaled the taproom with. Like she knew the facts, but never heard one of the Taken recite their own story in front of her.
Why though?
Either she'd never been Taken at all.
Or she had been. And she remembered it much more clearly than any of the others.
If Zemyra remembered the emotions, then there was a good chance she remembered more of the Mirror King than she admitted.
Sterling needed to find the truth. Because he fully intended to stop the Mirror King.
Which meant, first thing in the morning, he needed to hike straight back up the mountain.
This time, Zemyra wasn't getting rid of him until he got the answers that would lead him to his target.
***
Myra glared with frustration at the threads under her fingers. Once again, she was forced to undo the past half-hour's worth of work. For the third time that morning, she'd made a simple mindless mistake because she couldn't stay focused.
The faint hum of contentedness and silvery wave of pleasure that usually accompanied her work had fragmented and refused to flow.
Yesterday's unexpected visitor still had her rattled. It had been years since Myra had been this worried about her secret being uncovered.
But if Sterling kept poking and digging, he might reveal more of the truth than Myra could survive.
If that truth came out, the Mirror King would come for her again. Nothing would stop him from taking her and finishing what he started.
A shiver shook through her and she dropped the thread still gripped in her fingers. Myra closed her eyes, pushing slow, careful breaths through her nose. Drivin
g the horrible possibilities down as deep as she could bury them. Refusing to let the fear take hold.
She was the only one who knew the truth. As long as she clung to her story, her secret was safe. No matter how determined Sterling the Treasure Hunter seemed to be.
With a sigh, Myra admitted defeat and accepted that no decent weaving would be accomplished this day.
The morning had dawned much cooler than the previous day, but the sky was still bright blue when she walked out of her cottage after breakfast. Despite that, experience warned Myra a storm was coming. She'd lived on the mountain her entire life and had known how to read the signs from the time she was a little girl.
Long before the breathing sickness had stolen her mother away from her. Before Myra became a ward of the Milners.
Before her whole world had been ripped apart and she'd been left with nothing but her name.
Shaking free of melancholy thoughts, Myra sighed down at her loom.
She'd hoped to get a few hours' worth of weaving done before the worst of the blizzard hit, forcing her to huddle inside her cottage for days. Unfortunately, all she managed to do was make more work for herself.
The temperature had dropped so much, Myra needed to work with the door closed. After the first hour, she'd even lit the brazier in the corner to keep her fingers from getting stiff with the chill creeping in.
The gathering pressure outside pushed on her and her skin prickled with the icy tang of snow in the air.
Soon, the mountain would be wrapped in a curtain of white and cold that would last for days.
With the storm coming and her mind constantly drifting to dire possibilities, there was no point in continuing to mess up the beautiful blanket waiting to be finished.
Moving away from the loom, Myra doused the brazier, making sure not a single spark or coal remained before covering it with the heavy iron lid. Then she put away the yarn and tools she'd been working with before bundling up in her cloak for the short trip across the yard.
The moment she opened the shed door, however, Myra wanted to slam it closed again.
The storm had moved in even faster than she expected. Low, dark clouds hung thick and heavy in the sky, blocking out any hint of the sun. A few white flakes already drifted in the air and littered the ground.
But it wasn't the weather that made Myra consider holing up in her shed to ride out the storm.
It was the sight of Sterling, marching determinedly across her yard that sent the wave of panic rushing through her.
But hiding from him was only going to make him more suspicious and determined. So Myra crushed the fear clawing in her throat beneath a flood of exasperation and indignation.
Stepping out of the shed with her hands on her hips, shoulders squared and jaw tight, she faced him head-on.
"What are you doing here?"
He stopped abruptly, still a few yards away from Myra, seemingly surprised by her glower.
"I thought of a few more questions after I left. I was hoping you might spare a couple of minutes."
His tone was careful and light, but Myra saw the tinge of renewed suspicion. It was clear in the tension of his posture and the tight, wary way he watched her.
Her heart clutched, making it hard to breathe, but Myra refused to show any weakness or uncertainty.
"I told you what little I remembered yesterday," she insisted, voice firm and clipped with impatience. Then she deliberately turned her back on him, closing up the shed and securing it firmly against the coming storm.
She shouldn't have been surprised to find him standing right beside her when she finished, but she bumped into Sterling with a startled gasp.
He steadied her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, and, for a moment, Myra wanted to lean into the touch. She'd been alone so long in her secluded cabin.
And, even before...
Well, it was hard to remember a time when she hadn't expected harshness or pain from any human touch she received.
But there was a price for accepting his gentleness. One she wasn't willing to pay. So Myra shrugged his hand away and brushed by him, heading for the woodpile under the lean-to attached to the cottage.
"This is about what you do remember," Sterling continued, as if he hadn't noticed her attempt to brush him off. Not taking the hint, he followed at her heels. "The few memories you retain seem clearer and sharper than those of the other Taken I've spoken to."
Myra's muscles clenched, her breath deserted her, and she nearly dropped the armful of wood she'd already gathered.
Had she given something away? How much? Could she undo the damage?
"I'm not going to tell anyone anything you share with me," Sterling said softly. "Your story is safe with me."
The urge to laugh bubbled up but she choked it off. If it started, the hysteria might send her over the edge. He had no idea what he was asking. No idea how much of a risk he was asking her to take.
On the brink of panic, a silvery ripple of power ran through her.
One she'd only given in to once before
One she couldn't afford to unleash now.
Instead of yielding to the instinct, Myra braced herself and forced a calm demeanor. The only course now was to brazen it out and refuse to give him anything else.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I really don't remember anything at all." Myra fueled the words with every ounce of conviction she could muster.
Despite her best efforts, his mouth set and his jaw tightened into a hard line.
"I'm just hoping there is a detail you remember that the others don't. Something that might help me find the Mirror King."
"Mr. Sterling, let me be perfectly clear. I don't want to talk to you. I will never want to talk to you. I have put that nightmare firmly in the past. I cannot, will not, help you."
"Sterling."
"What?" Myra blinked at him, thrown off that he'd only quietly corrected his name rather than continuing to try to persuade her.
"My name is just Sterling," he repeated with an easy smile. "No titles or honorifics. I'm simply Sterling."
Myra swallowed back the impulse to tell him there was nothing simple about him. Instead, she tilted her head and echoed his offhand demeanor.
"Sterling, you really should head back down toward the village before the storm hits..."
The words trailed off as Myra glanced past his shoulder to the slanting curtain of white blocking any view beyond the shelter of the lean-to. She couldn't even see her weaving shed, only a few yards away.
Myra mutter a soft curse, shoulders slumping in defeat.
No matter how much she wanted to get rid of him, she couldn't send him down the mountain now. He'd be lost within a hundred yards.
Chapter Three
THE SUDDEN CHANGE in Zemyra took Sterling by surprise and he turned his head to see what had captured her attention.
The heavy fall of snow obscured everything behind him and the sharp scent of cold filled the air. He'd been so focused on sparring with Zemyra, he'd missed every sign of the abrupt shift in weather.
Zemyra exhaled sharply, irritation and resignation replacing the stubborn set of her expression.
"Well, don't just stand there, Mr. Sterling. Make yourself useful and grab a load of wood."
She brushed past him and marched out into the snow.
Her attitude left no doubt that she expected him to fall in line and follow orders.
"Sterling," he muttered, while doing exactly that. "I told you it's just Sterling."
Inside the cottage, Sterling settled the logs by the hearth, where Myra was already stoking elements one last time.
White swirled and flowed as far as the eye could see, hiding everything else in its wake. But it wasn't a single, uniform white. No. Dozens of variations wove their way in a beautiful, ferocious tableau.
When he'd first walked out of the forest, only a dusting of flakes had covered Zemyra's yard. Now, every bit of
grass and foliage was coated with a shimmering coat of snow.
"Where did that come from?" Sterling murmured with bemusement, before shaking himself from the contemplation and closing the door against the howling wind and swirling snow.
"The sky," Zemyra answered with sharp sarcasm, but Sterling saw the first hints of a smile curl the edges of her lips.
The sudden urge to hear her laugh was a kick in the stomach that took his breath away.
Then her eyebrow quirked with curiosity. "Didn't anyone in the village warn you that a storm was coming?"
They had. But he'd woken to blue skies and an urgent need for answers demanding his full attention. So he'd ignored the warnings and the dropping temperatures, arrogantly certain of his ability to make it up the mountain and back before the snow fell.
Equal measures of wounded pride and humiliation kept that admission locked securely behind his lips, however. Instead of answering, Sterling shrugged and asked, "How long do you think the storm will last?"
"It should blow itself out in a day or two."
Uncertainly, Sterling glanced around the confines of the tiny cottage.
The entire interior was a single room dominated by the fireplace. Floor to ceiling shelves made up a pantry on one side of the hearth. Extra firewood took up all the space on its other side. The wall opposite the fireplace held a narrow cot piled high with blankets and pillows. A small table and single chair took up most of the rest of the floor.
There wasn't much space for one person, let alone two of them.
Guilt for invading her home uninvited curled into a sharp ball in his chest. No matter how badly he wanted answers, he couldn't force his presence on her for days like this.
"Maybe I should head back down before it gets worse, then."
Zemyra sighed and stood up, eyes tight with annoyance and resignation.
"I would very much like to send you on your way and reclaim my peace. But I can't, in good conscience. Between the snow and the wind, you'll be lucky to be able to see your hand in front of your face. Even those of us familiar with the area would be hard pressed not to get lost between one tree and the next."
Zemyra paused to set the kettle over the fire before adding, "You'd never make it back to the Winding Road, let alone all the way to Benhalle."
The Snow Wolf (Wolves Ever After Book 1) Page 2
