The Gray Wolf Throne

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Healers search out discordance in the bodies of their clients. They create order out of chaos, protecting body and spirit from toxins.

  It’s important that healers set boundaries during the healing process. You are of no help to your patient if you yourself succumb.

  Healers are teachers as well as therapists. They teach their clients to fight back.

  Healers are braver than the most valorous warrior, because they make themselves vulnerable. They open channels between them and those they treat.

  Leontus was a wire-haired zealot preaching to the unconverted, and students made fun of him each time he turned his back.

  Han recalled only remnants of charms—both to help the patient and protect the healer. He spoke them aloud, hoping he could recapture them that way.

  Rebecca stiffened against him, then trembled as a seizure rolled through her body. Once again, Han pressed his fingers against the wound, sending power in. The area around the wound had gone icy.

  The poison was doing its work. Han knew she would not make it to Marisa Pines.

  Ragger lurched forward, responding to the sudden grip of Han’s knees. Making soothing noises at the gelding, Han opened his coat and shirt, ignoring the rapidly dropping temperature. Lifting Rebecca’s shirt, he pulled her body tight against his bare chest, wrapping his coat around her to hold the heat in.

  Gripping his amulet, he whispered the opening charm for healing. Then he tentatively reached out for her with his mind. That much, he remembered—how to get hold of the thoughts of others for a purpose.

  He’d halfheartedly participated in the exercises in class. They’d paired off, and…

  The channel opened, and he was through. She was cold, so cold, the poisoned wound like an open window that drew the heat and life of her body away.

  Healers nudged the patient, convincing them to fight back. Shivering, he burrowed deeper, cautiously making his way toward the spark of life that smoldered at her center.

  Come on, Rebecca. Fight back. Don’t go down on the bricks for them. Stick with me. Don’t give in. Don’t let them win.

  It was as if he’d wandered into a cold cave without a map, bumping into memories and emotions in the dark. Images slid through his mind, from a different life—much of which made no sense to him. A vast expanse of water—an ocean he’d never seen. A pair of red dancing shoes. Opulent palace interiors. An emerald necklace in the shape of a serpent. A view of Fellsmarch at night through a wall of glass, the wizard lamps pricking out the streets below.

  And people: Amon Byrne in a fancy dress uniform, standing at rigid attention in an entryway. Averill Lightfoot Demonai, his face softened by an affection meant for someone else.

  Lord Demonai? Rebecca knows Lord Demonai?

  Well, she is of clan blood.

  An elegant blond-haired lady cradling a newborn baby, singing a lullaby in a high, clear voice. Micah Bayar, clad in black and white, extending his hands, the black eyes glittering with lust and triumph.

  No. Han turned away from that one to see himself, in the upstairs room at the Turtle, holding the music box he’d given Rebecca. And now, there he was, very close, leaning down for a kiss, his eyes blue flecked with gold. It was a peculiar inside-out feeling to experience this from the other side.

  Han swam in a sea of emotions—bone-deep guilt. A longing for home. An aching sense of loss that was not his own. Anger and betrayal and fear.

  Now she was fighting back, fiercely, with what little strength she had left. But she was fighting him. She saw his presence as a threat, not a help. Maybe she didn’t want him finding out her secrets.

  “Hey, now, save your strength,” he whispered. “I won’t intrude where I’m not wanted.”

  So he turned his attention to the wound. Maybe there was a way he could detoxify the poison, or drive it out of her body. But he just didn’t know enough.

  Well. If he couldn’t rid her of the poison, maybe he could keep it at bay, keep it from killing her before they reached Marisa Pines. And so he dug in, throwing up barricades between the poison and the life force in her.

  Minutes passed, and the poison halted its spread. It stayed, quarantined in the flesh surrounding the wound.

  It was not without a cost. Rebecca might be protected from the poison, but now he himself was vulnerable to it, despite his much larger body size. Soon he was reeling in the saddle, head pounding, chilled and nauseated. Ragger snorted and danced, wary of the muddled stranger on his back. If they’d come upon more assassins, there was no way Han could have mounted a defense.

  He was a stranger in enemy territory, and instinct told him to hide his serpent amulet from view. He poked it under his shirt, out of sight, so it rested against his skin. He pulled out the lone hunter piece Dancer had made, and displayed it on the outside.

  But he slid his hand under his shirt and kept hold of the flash that had once belonged to the Demon King.

  Time passed. The shadows of the trees shortened, then lengthened again. The snow came, falling softly all around them, shrouding the hard edges of the world. Somehow, he drank the rest of his water. The last drops burned like flames down his throat. Hot was cold and cold was hot—an apparent side effect of the poison.

  He kept one hand fastened on the serpent amulet, the other pressed Rebecca close. His amulet flamed and cooled in his hand. Power flowed from the amulet, through Han, into Rebecca. Where Han had been hot, and Rebecca cold, now it was reversed. She blazed against the frozen skin of his chest. Ragger chose his own way now, the reins slack over the pommel of the saddle.

  Han heard a familiar voice in his head, persistent, unrelenting, badgering him.

  Alister. What are you doing? Stop! Let the girl go. You’ll ruin everything. You’re killing yourself. After all the time I’ve invested in you, you are not allowed to destroy yourself.

  Shut up, Crow, Han thought. I know what I’m doing.

  Other voices joined in. This one sounded like Corporal Byrne. Stay alive, Rai. Stay alive. Stay alive until I come. Don’t give up.

  Rai?

  Han was seeing things now, so maybe he was hearing things too. The landscape flickered and crawled in his peripheral vision. Wolves. Gray wolves flanked them to either side, weaving through curtains of snow. The wolves turned into fine blueblood ladies, their skirts sliding over the snow. Then back to wolves. He tried to ignore them, to pretend they weren’t there. But it seemed almost like they were helping, keeping them moving in the right direction. An escort of sorts, through the blinding snow.

  He made a plan, practiced what he would say like a small child might. If he practiced it enough, engraved it into his mind, he still might remember even if he was out of his head. Any delay might be fatal to Rebecca.

  Find Willo Watersong. We need Willo. The girl is poisoned.

  He stared down at the snow, thinking that it would refresh his burning throat, but he couldn’t figure out how to get to it.

  He became oddly conscious of his breathing, focused on it, convinced that if he didn’t remember to breathe, he would simply stop.

  Breathe.

  He tilted his head back, and snowflakes sizzled on his tongue like sparks. The forest around him rippled and quaked, the colors running down like paint on a canvas. Or fireworks. He remembered something about fireworks and rooftops and hope.

  Leaves glittered in the sunlight.

  Sunlight. The sun was up. The snow had stopped. Or was it just another hallucination?

  Breathe.

  With an odd clarity, he noticed that the fresh snow on the trail had been churned by many horses. Plumes of steam rose around him, and the stink of sulfur and wood smoke intruded into his clouded mind. He just couldn’t remember why it was important.

  Looking down, he saw with some surprise that there was a girl in his arms, dark head drooping against his shoulder, cheeks flushed with the cold, lips slightly parted in sleep. He squinted at her. What was her name again?

  He brushed her cheek with a trembling forefinge
r. Her face was black and blue where someone had hurt her, but she was alive. He released a long breath of relief as tears ran down his face. He must have slept and dreamed she was dead.

  He was so focused on solving this puzzle that he was surprised when Ragger came to an abrupt halt. He looked up to see a small child standing in the middle of the trail in deerskin leggings and tunic. He blinked, and then there were two, no four.

  “He’s hurt!” one said, in Clan.

  “So is she!”

  “Who are they?”

  He heard dogs barking and more excited chatter. A wave of dizziness rolled over him, then the voices of a gathering crowd.

  “Willo,” he whispered. “Need Willo.”

  Then three Demonai warriors stepped out onto the trail between Han and the small pack of children and dogs. They were armed with longbows, arrows nocked, but aimed at the ground, dressed in the sunlight and shadow Demonai clothing. The tallest warrior reached up, grabbing for Ragger’s bridle, but Ragger showed his teeth and reared up, nearly dumping Han and the girl onto the ground. The Demonai backed off quickly.

  “Stay off,” Han said, his mouth and tongue so numb he was scarcely understandable. “Get out of my way.”

  “What have you done to that girl, jinxflinger?” the Demonai demanded. “Let her go.”

  What he was saying didn’t make sense, but Han was too far gone to sort it out. He had a plan. He’d practiced it all the way there, repeated the message over and over in his mind.

  “Willo,” he croaked. “Need Willo. The girl is poisoned.”

  Rebecca’s head drooped like a flower on a long stem, her face buried against his coat.

  The Demonai raised their bows. “Keep your hands where we can see them,” the tall warrior said. “Let the girl go.”

  “Can’t,” Han whispered. “She’ll die. Where’s Willo?”

  The warriors looked at one another as if this were a hard question.

  “Where is Willo?” Han shouted, losing patience. “The girl is dying. Tell me where she is or I’ll ride right over you.”

  The children broke and ran toward camp as if chased by demons.

  “Give her to us,” the tall warrior said. “We’ll take her to Willo.”

  Han shook his head stubbornly. He had a plan, and this wasn’t it. “Where’s Willo?”

  The warriors exchanged glances again.

  “This way,” one of the Demonai said. “Follow us.” Two of them began walking down the trail ahead away from Han, while the tall one stood aside, his bow slack in his hands.

  Han urged Ragger forward at a walk. They walked past the tall warrior. In his peripheral vision, Han saw the warrior raise his bow, take careful aim. But Han’s muddled mind could not process this, could not divine the significance.

  “No!” someone shouted. “Stop! Don’t shoot! It’s Hunts Alone!”

  Han looked up to see Willo flying toward them, moccasins flashing in and out of the snow, hair streaming out behind her. She wore white—full skirts, a long deerskin tunic overtop, not even a coat.

  Huh, Han thought hazily. White was the color of mourning in the camps. Had somebody died?

  She was trailed by a dozen young children.

  Han’s vision swam, and Willo became a smear of motion. He swayed, shaking his head to clear it, and then she was right in front of him.

  Willo extended her hand and took hold of Ragger’s bridle, murmuring a greeting to him. Instead of laying back his ears and baring his teeth, the gelding snuffled gently at her hand.

  Willo looked up at Han. “What’s the matter, Hunts Alone?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  Beyond her, like an echo, he could hear the children chattering in Clan.

  “It’s Hunts Alone!”

  “Hunts Alone? He looks different.”

  “His hair’s the same.”

  “What’s that he’s got around his neck?”

  “Is he sick?”

  “Who’s that girl?”

  Willo put her hand on his arm, and power flowed into him, steadying him, clearing his head enough to speak.

  Han forced the words past his numb lips. “This girl’s been poisoned, Willo. An arrow-point daub, and the tip’s still in her.”

  “Whose?” She snapped out the question, but he understood.

  “Not…not clan. S…soldiers. Upland soldiers, I believe. I don’t know what poisons they use.”

  “Who is she?” Willo asked, craning her neck, trying to get a look at Rebecca’s face.

  “R-Rebecca Morley. She lives in the Vale, but she has clan blood.” Maybe Willo wouldn’t treat a flatlander.

  The matriarch kept her hand on his arm. Han had the odd sense that her touch was all that was keeping him upright. She was looking at him oddly. “Did you take an arrow also?”

  He shook his head. “I…I tried to save her. But I’m no healer.”

  “You used high magic?”

  Han nodded. “I tried.” He waved his hand dispiritedly. “Didn’t work. I…”

  Han felt the flow of energy change, filling some void within him. “Oh,” Willo breathed, her eyes going wide and pooling with tears. “Oh, Hunts Alone…” Her voice broke.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. Saliva seemed to be building up in his mouth, and he had no way to swallow it. His body no longer reliably followed his commands.

  Breathe.

  “Will you give the girl to me?” she said. “Will you let me try?”

  He nodded, dizzy with relief. “Please, Willo. Please. Save her. It doesn’t matter…what happens to me.”

  “Release her,” Willo said. “Let go of your amulet and release her to me.”

  In his head, Han could hear Crow shouting in his ear. He ignored it. He released his death grip on the amulet.

  Willo extended her arms, and Han leaned forward, easing the girl into them. Willo looked down into Rebecca’s face and gasped, going pale under her bronze skin. “Blood of Hanalea!” she whispered.

  Han went cold with dread. Was she dead? Was Rebecca already dead? Was he too late after all? Had he carried a dead body all the way to Marisa Pines?

  Willo looked up at the gawking Demonai. “Bring Hunts Alone to the Matriarch Lodge,” she ordered. “Quickly now. And find Elena Cennestre. I need help.”

  “Willo!” Han called, but she was already away, striding toward the lodge with Rebecca limp in her arms. The bowmen gripped his arms, pulling him from his horse, and though he tried, he couldn’t keep his seat, and he fell forward into blackness.

  C H A P T E R E L E V E N

  SECRETS REVEALED

  Raisa woke to the sound of women’s voices and the aroma of food cooking slow. For a while she only listened and breathed, afraid to open her eyes. Her entire body tingled and burned, as if pins and needles were being driven into her skin. It was much like the sensation of blood returning to fingers and toes after a day out in the cold. Hearing, smell, touch, taste: each was exquisitely sensitive to her surroundings. Even the quiet conversation clamored in her ears.

  The women spoke the upland dialect. She heard other familiar sounds: the whirr of a spinning wheel, the thump of the overhead beater on a loom, the hiss of flames on the nearby hearth. Raisa knew where she was before she opened her eyes—in one of the upland clan lodges.

  She lay sprawled on her stomach on a deep feather bed under a light blanket, her sleeping bench close to the fire. She wore a loose garment, a white flax tunic that tied at the neck. A dull pain in her back drew her attention, insistent as a toothache. Gingerly, she slid her hand into her neckline and explored the area with her fingers, encountering layers of bandages.

  She must be at Marisa Pines. How had she come there? It was like opening a book at random, or walking into the middle of a scene in a play without knowing what had come before.

  It didn’t matter, she thought, closing her eyes. All would be well now. She could finally rest after her long struggle to stay alive. Somebody else could take responsibility. She would tell her mo
ther what had happened, and Marianna and Averill would do something about it. With that reassuring thought, she drifted back into a more peaceful sleep.

  When she woke again, it was late afternoon or early evening. Light leaked in around the doors and windows, but lanterns had already been kindled against the encroaching darkness.

  A disturbing image surfaced: Captain Byrne on his face in the trail, his blood black against snow, his back bristling with arrows.

  Other memories elbowed forward. Mac Gillen, the renegade officer who’d carried her off, had, in a peculiar twist of fate, saved her life. She’d killed him and had taken his horse. But they’d waited for her at the pass and chased her down the long slope into a canyon, until a bolt had flung her from her horse. She’d managed to kill one more, but the poison was spreading, she was growing weak, and they were closing in. And then…

  When she closed her eyes, she saw a familiar face, lit by torchlight, sculpted by pain, a landscape of high cheekbones, long straight nose, intense blue eyes, framed by fair hair.

  Han Alister. He’d intruded into her personal nightmare somehow. It didn’t make any sense. She’d left Han back in Oden’s Ford. As far as she knew, he was still there, thinking she’d abandoned him.

  She shivered, remembering the burn of his hands against the cold, spreading stain of poison, and the power that bled into her, thawing the frozen places.

  She’d fought with him. She’d tried to escape into oblivion, but he’d followed her, breached her defenses, and…and what? They’d intertwined, joined together like fire and ice, and he’d sheltered her from the insidious cold.

  She’d never felt safer—she’d never felt more alive than when she lay dying in Han Alister’s arms.

  There was something—something about her ring. He’d taken her ring from her. She lifted her hands, and the wolf ring was right where it belonged, on the forefinger of her right hand.

  So maybe it had been a dream, she thought, disappointed. She’d meant to die with his face before her, and she’d hallucinated the rest.

  That should have been reassuring, but all she knew was that now she felt empty. Bereft. Alone as she’d never been before. There was something else—something lurking in the back of her mind. Something she didn’t want to remember.