The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  “How?” Roper asked, watching Uvoren laugh uproariously at another blow aimed at his leadership. I thought I had you. He had the energy of an ocean current.

  Across the polished bog-oak, Roper could see the Chief Historian looking at him wearily. The greatest warriors can fight in any theatre.

  “Smother him,” said Gray. “You always need to be a step ahead. Make sure he has not a single opportunity to further advance his reputation. He has earned himself huge adulation simply through minor gestures about the fortress. Remove his opportunities for glory. Send him on a fool’s errand to keep him occupied, while you raid south. Dismantle his allies, one by one, until he has nothing left. And then, when he is small enough, force him to disgrace himself.”

  One by one.

  The room seemed to change before Roper. He was no longer sitting at the Stone Throne. His perspective, duller, less vivid but somehow starker, had shifted to one of the obscure chairs about the table. The other occupants had changed too, and the light had faded.

  On his right sat Pryce, but not as Roper now knew him. He was a colder, more intimidating version.

  Opposite Pryce was the Sacred Guardsman, Hartvig Uxison. He sat next to Baldwin, the Legion Tribune. Next to him were Unndor and Urthr Uvorenson; they were opposite their father. Vinjar, the Councillor for Agriculture, Legate Randolph, and Legate Tore. Also sitting at the table were two darker figures: Gosta and Asger. They did not matter any more.

  Roper remembered every one of them. They had all sat at this table months before, in the aftermath of the battle that had claimed his father. Two were dead. One now served him. He would have the rest.

  He leaned over to Gray, eyes always on Uvoren, who was regarding the two of them with something like triumph. “My understanding is that Vigtyr the Quick would be able to break Uvoren’s allies for us.”

  Gray went very still. “Who told you that?”

  “Tekoa. You know him?”

  “I know him,” said Gray. Vigtyr was widely regarded as the finest swordsman in the country but had never been appointed to the Sacred Guard because of questions over his temperament. Instead he was a lictor in Ramnea’s Own Legion. He had a dark reputation. It was said that Vigtyr cultivated favours as other men bred sheep. This in turn gave this wildly ambitious man influence and access to a great array of secrets. It was he whom Roper had seen observing the Sacred Guard so intently at prayer whilst they were on campaign.

  “I cannot make your decisions for you, lord. All I can say is no matter how desperate I was, nor how terrible Uvoren seemed, I would never turn to Vigtyr. Do you hear me? Using a man like that would cost you more than you can possibly afford.”

  “If you say so, but how else am I to break Uvoren’s allies?”

  “We wait for them to make a mistake.”

  Roper was not sure that he had that long. Gray seemed sincere, so he put Vigtyr from his mind for the moment. He weathered the storm of the council, standing at the end to address the concerns raised in more measured tones, though he could tell he had not been convincing and left the chamber with the feeling that this situation was escalating beyond his control. He bade goodbye to Gray and disappeared into the obscurity of one of the spiral staircases that surrounded the Central Keep, rising several storeys to his quarters.

  Roper wished that he lived in a different building from that which housed the Chamber of State, so that he could feel that the day’s business was left in the keep and his time in his quarters was his own. Or that, just for a few moments, he could feel cool air that moved rather than the still, stifling atmosphere that surrounded him now. He might ask Keturah whether she wanted to walk on top of the battlements, above the smoke. If she were well.

  He found her sitting in a chair by the fire in their quarters, some half-finished weaving lying unattended in her lap and that impatient expression on her face. The giant elk’s skull looked down over her. She glanced up as he entered and he was shocked to see how tired she looked. Her face was lined, her eyes were terribly bloodshot and her lips even had a bluish hue to them. He stopped at the sight of her. “Are you all right, Wife?”

  “Of course,” she said. She was evidently trying to keep her voice light; Roper knew that she would not admit her troubles to him. “How was the council?”

  Roper pulled a chair up next to her and sat down. “Bad. Uvoren had hold of the plague like a rabid dog; he wouldn’t let go.”

  She appraised him. “Not the most unjustified criticism you’ve received.”

  “Certainly more justified than the claims that I beat the Sutherners by trading half the east in exchange for their withdrawal.”

  Keturah laughed briefly. “Is that still being said? If that were the case, why do they now think the Sutherners have retreated behind the Abus?”

  “They say they couldn’t weather the winter in a hostile land, so have gone south for now and have my word that they can return in the spring.” He thought that might amuse Keturah, but she had turned towards the fire and was staring into it vacantly. “That’s Randolph’s theory anyway.”

  “I like Randolph,” she said, still staring at the fire.

  “I like him too. It’s a shame he’s on the wrong side.”

  “It is. But if you kill the others, perhaps you can let him live to show your mercy.”

  “Maybe. I want to kill Baldwin first. Then Vinjar. Pompous prick.”

  Keturah shuddered a little. “Baldwin sucks the energy from a room. He’s so dark.”

  Roper thought for a moment. “What about Unndor and Urthr? They look so disillusioned with their father that perhaps they would join us?”

  Keturah tried to smile but merely looked strained. “I don’t think so. They’re still family. They may hate their father but, if anyone else threatens him, you can be sure they’ll be at his side.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so familiar to Roper but it seemed odd. It took him a moment to register why.

  “Keturah,” he said.

  She glanced at him and saw that he was looking down at her left hand. She followed his gaze and saw that the lock of hair had come away in her fingers: a thick, dark ribbon that rested on the back of her hand. She jerked it up to her eyes, staring at it with disbelief. Then she dropped it in her lap and both hands flew up to her head. Both came away with thick locks of hair between the fingers, leaving behind embarrassed, fallow skin.

  Keturah stared at the hair in her hands for a moment. Then she let it fall to the floor. She looked up at Roper. His mouth was open and his face like chalk.

  “What’s happening to me?” Her voice was like the whistle as air escapes a bellows and, for the first time ever, Roper heard a tremor of fear. They shared a look, and Roper could do no more than shake his head. Her gaze brightened as he watched. A single tear heaved over her eyelid and splashed onto her cheek and Roper stood abruptly, taking her still outstretched hands.

  “Come, Wife. Lie down and I’ll fetch the physician.” She stood, allowing her weaving to fall to the floor, and let him guide her to the bed. He kissed her cheek before turning away. She would not want him to see her cry.

  17

  Vengeance Is for Now

  The physician, the same wire-haired man who had stripped Kynortas’s skull for Roper, examined Keturah where she lay on the bed. Roper left him to it, waiting outside to spare his wife her dignity. When the physician emerged, Roper, sitting with his back against the corridor wall outside, stood abruptly. “Is it the plague?”

  “This isn’t plague, my lord,” said the physician. “Plague does not make you lose your hair.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Your wife has been poisoned, lord.”

  Roper stared, silent for a moment. “Poisoned?”

  “I believe so. She says she has felt unwell for two days: we must begin purging her at once if we are to have any hope of avoiding permanent damage.”

  “As fast as you can,” said Roper. The physician bowed and hurried away to fetch
his tonics. Roper hesitated. Those men of Uvoren’s whom he had thought were following him: could they have been for Keturah instead? He opened the latch to his quarters and found Keturah inside, lying on the bed. She looked at him, eyes quite dry now, and offered him the shattered fragments of a smile.

  “I think this may be my fault, Husband.”

  Roper sat down on the bed. “Why would you think that?”

  “This is Uvoren’s doing. He wants to kill me so that I have time to know I’m dying.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a conversation we had while you were on campaign. Then I goaded him at the feast when you were back because I thought we’d won.” She rolled her eyes wearily. “Stupid.”

  “No,” said Roper. “Nobody can allow that man to act as powerful as he thinks he is. And you couldn’t have known this would happen. We had no idea he was so underhanded.”

  She smiled, looking ironically amused again, and placed a hand on his knee. “What about when he tried to assassinate you?”

  “Even that is in a different league to poisoning your enemy’s wife.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” asked Keturah, who seemed to be trying to enjoy herself.

  “First, we’re going to get you well,” said Roper. “Then we’re going to see how much vengeance Uvoren has brought down upon himself.”

  “Getting well is going to involve a lot of purging, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what the physician says.”

  “I propose we don’t bother, then.”

  Roper did not laugh. “No joking, Wife. I imagine you won’t look back at the next few days with much fondness, but at least it may give you the chance to look back on them from some distance. And I don’t think Uvoren intended to kill you.”

  “Why?”

  “I will tell you when you’re well.” He took her hand from his knee and kissed it. He no longer sensed that tremor of fear in her voice.

  The physician re-entered, holding an armful of phials. “Distillation of foxglove first,” said the physician. “This will make you vomit for a few hours. Then wood sorrel solution, and as much water as you can drink.”

  Roper stood. “I’m going to send word to your father. I’ll be back for the performance.” He departed to find Helmec, requesting that he pass news of what had happened on to Tekoa, and then returned to assist Keturah.

  The foxglove solution, once administered, took effect in moments. The physician had supplied two pails for Keturah to vomit into and at first Roper held her hair out of the way as she purged the poison. After a time that ceased to be necessary: Keturah’s hair was coming away in great tufts with the force of her exertion. He could tell she had noticed but was pretending that she had not. Roper looked up at the physician in dismay.

  “She will lose all her hair, lord,” he said quietly. “Maybe the outer half of her eyebrows as well.”

  “Will it grow back?”

  The physician shook his head. “That depends on how much of the poison she is able to expel. Everything depends on that. She has already lost feeling in her hands and feet.” This was news to Roper. Then he remembered Keturah’s weaving lying unattended in her lap as he had entered and how she had not noticed the hair come away in her hands. “That may be permanent. The effects of the poison may progress further. Her one hope is to purge, and then we can only wait.”

  So effective was the emetic that had been administered, it was all Keturah could do to lean on her knees and haul in shuddering breaths in the brief moments of respite she was afforded. When her retching became dry, the physician gave her water so that she could keep going, an act that was met with a brief moan of resistance from Keturah. That was the last voluntary noise she could utter. Soon she was barely conscious, lying white against the bed’s woollen blankets and retching pathetically over the edge.

  The physician departed at Roper’s request soon afterwards, leaving them the wood sorrel solution to be administered when the vomiting had ceased. As Roper thanked him, he noticed that tremor again. Then he and Keturah were left alone. Roper wondered what words might comfort her and though he was not sure she could hear him, he began talking. First he told her about the insults Randolph had rained down upon him. “‘The cheerful warrior of misadventure,’ was another one. I don’t know whether he comes up with them on the spot, or prepares them in advance.” Then he told her about the revenge he was going to wreak on Uvoren. “When Pryce defended me on Harstathur, he told Asger he’d mash his bulging eyeballs into the back of his bastard skull. That’s how it’ll finish for Uvoren. But we’ll leave him all alone first. Tear down his allies and his family, his reputation, his past, his prospects and his friends. He’ll know he’s all that’s left. He’ll know he’s going to die, and he’ll face it alone. And we’ll see how brave Uvoren the Mighty is.”

  Once he had run out of imaginative things to do to Uvoren, he returned to reality and told her about his favourite wild places. “There was a spot I found in the forests near the berjasti which was where I’d go whenever there was time. Next to a forty-foot waterfall, where the bed of the stream disappeared and the water dropped into nothing. You could sit with your legs dangling over the edge, listening to the roar. You could smell the ferns and the resin from the pine trees overhead and feel the spray on your skin. The cold air used to tumble down the valley sometimes and you could feel it hit you. It’s the only place I’ve ever seen a lynx. Just a flash of it, moving through the trees on the other side of the stream.”

  Helmec was back within the hour. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at Keturah, his face sombre for once. “You’ll be all right soon, Miss Keturah,” he said after a time. “You’re in the best of hands.” If Keturah had heard that, she did not appear capable of acknowledging it, but Roper looked up and nodded gratefully.

  “Where’s Tekoa?”

  “He’s coming, lord.” Helmec bowed and smiled consolingly, backing out of the room. “It looks like you’ve got this under control, lord, but you summon me if I’m needed.”

  The legate arrived not long afterwards. Roper himself had just returned from emptying a pail into the gutter when Tekoa hurled the door open, leaving an indignant Helmec in his wake. The legate, who never looked anything short of purposeful, walked as though he would not be troubled by a company of berserkers barring his path. He strode in and stopped before his daughter, who still lay on the bed, drawing shallow breaths. She was very pale and at first Roper did not think she was awake. Then she opened a poisonous, bloodshot eye and fixed it on her father. She panted for a moment longer before expelling something dark from her mouth, missing the pail it had been aimed for. She stared at Tekoa a moment longer and then moved her head a fraction in acknowledgement, shuttering the eye again. Her lips were a dark, faded green, her body wracked by spasms and her hair was almost completely gone, leaving an inflamed scalp and some fine wisps on the back of her neck. It occurred to Roper that had Tekoa seen his daughter just two hours before, she would have appeared almost well.

  “Hello, Daughter,” said Tekoa. Keturah did not respond. “Glad to see you looking so well.” Keturah spluttered a little, which Roper thought was an attempt at a laugh. “I’m going to speak to your husband for a moment.” He gestured for Roper to come outside with him. Roper followed him out and shut the door, leaving Keturah alone. Tekoa turned on him, jaw set and eyes narrowed.

  “Lord Roper Kynortasson.” His voice was very low. “The man who would protect the country but who cannot even protect his wife. Our alliance is finished. Do you hear me, Lord Roper? Finished! I will take my daughter back under my own roof this very night and with her the debts that you owe me.”

  Roper retreated slightly from Tekoa’s anger, placing a hand on his shoulder. He could feel the heat coming off the legate and Tekoa knocked his hand away and pushed him hard in the chest.

  “Get your hand off me!”

  Roper staggered back but did not react. He was the bigger man and he took the blow, once again s
tepping forward and placing his hand at Tekoa’s shoulder. This time the legate left it there. “You can try collecting your debts,” Roper said. “I can’t pay them now. As for your daughter, I should imagine this confrontation is exactly what Uvoren wanted when he poisoned her. If this shows you anything, it’s that you have chosen the right side.” Tekoa did not look mollified. “We will have revenge and we will have it together. I’m going to break him, Tekoa. Him, and anyone else connected to what happened to your daughter.”

  “Yes, you bloody are,” said Tekoa. “Revenge is for now, Lord Roper. Now. Now, this moment. Uvoren must understand stimulus and reaction. He poisons the daughter of the Vidarr, the entire bloody universe comes down on top of him. Him, and whoever did this at his order.”

  Roper hesitated, remembering Gray’s warning. “I will summon Vigtyr the Quick.”

  Tekoa raised his arms. “Anyone. Just kill that bastard and all who follow him.”

  “We will. Uvoren doesn’t want your daughter dead, Tekoa.” The legate bared his teeth, apparently furious that what Uvoren wanted was even being discussed. “Killing her would only gain sympathy for our cause. He wants to make Keturah look weak, so that it looks as though my followers are weak. He wants to divide our alliance and my marriage. He is destroying my image and making me harder to follow. And to achieve a goal as feeble as that, he has poisoned your daughter. We have made him desperate together and now we need to beat him together.”

  “I wish to sit with my daughter,” said Tekoa abruptly. Roper stood aside and Tekoa Urielson seemed to steel himself for a moment before he reached for the door handle.