She sighed and turned her attention to unsnarling the knot she had made of her thread. The newlyborn dreamed of awakening; the awakened dreamed of finding a noble calling. What did the called dream of? She must ask Michael. No: she knew what Michael dreamed of. He dreamed of peace, which was why he did not take action. No doubt the other called had different dreams.
Jelena lifted her head when the door opened. Her friend and confidante, Amy, walked in. The sight of Amy’s bouncing red curls, challenging green eyes and mischievous smile always lifted Jelena’s spirits. Amy had been newlyborn about the same time as Teresa, but unlike Teresa, she was friendly and warm, and sometimes worried that she’d never awaken, just as Jelena did. She understood why Jelena fretted but tried to distract her from her cares with kindness and laughter.
Amy’s protector, Alaric the Brewmaster, entered the room just a step behind her and joined Michael and Charmaine — Teresa’s protector — in the corner where they stood making desultory conversation, casting glances in the direction of their charges now and then. Michael said something to Alaric, clasping him on the shoulder, then strode across the workroom floor to the door. He caught Jelena’s eyes and gave her the tilt of his head that meant he would be back soon, that she would be safe in the meantime under the benevolent gaze of Alaric. Alaric was certainly large enough to easily dispose of any physical threat. But it was not the physical threats that the protector must be most careful to prevent.
Jelena abandoned her sewing to watch Michael’s movements; his lithe grace, tall, well-built body, strong and supple. She had watched him work in the fields and run rider drills, the sweat sluicing across his muscles in the warmth of the sun. Once, she had seen him entirely naked, watching from a gap in the curtain, catching her breath as the moonlight through the narrow window silvered his body and made him look even more otherworldly and unattainable than usual.
The door shut behind him and she tried not to feel abandoned. Often one or the other of the protectors would slip off at a time like this, when two or more were gathered. Since protectors still had their callings to follow, they took these moments to complete some necessary business. Michael sometimes ran rider drills or met with a tribe member who needed spiritual counseling or advised a meeting of the elders. Lately he’d gone more often than he’d stayed. The burdens on him increased daily. She knew that she would have to do something soon to ease his load.
She also knew how empty the room seemed without him in it.
Dammit. Damn him.
Amy plopped down next to Jelena, reaching for her own sewing chest and saying, “By all that’s good, is this how hot it’s going to be every summer? I must have lived in a snowbound place as my pastself, don’t you think? I am truly about to melt.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead with a thick forearm and grinned at Jelena before opening her sewing chest. Her glance dropped to the disregarded tunic in Jelena’s lap. She shook her head and tsked. “Dear one, look what you’ve done. Now that’s a snarl. You know, that looks like my work, given my aptitude. I often wonder why they don’t set me to peeling potatoes in the kitchen.”
“That’s work for the unawakened,” Jelena said sharply under her breath, stabbing the fabric with her needle yet again. “That’s why they don’t have you peeling potatoes.”
“I see,” Amy said, clearly taken aback by the fervor in Jelena’s voice. “As I was saying, this looks like something I would commit, and so if you hand it here I’ll have it straight in a jiffy. I have plenty of practice unsnarling knots.” Without waiting for Jelena’s response, she picked up the tunic and went to work with her own needle, pulling threads up and unsnarling them, snipping them with the small silver scissors she unearthed from her box.
Glancing at Teresa and the others, Amy lowered her voice and said, “What’s the matter, dear one? I know you’re never exactly the lightest heart in the house, but you seem especially down today.”
Jelena lowered her eyes to her lap. She didn’t want to discuss —
“I saw the way you looked at Michael,” Amy said sympathetically.
Alarmed, Jelena grasped Amy’s wrist and said, “This has nothing to do with Michael!”
“Of course not,” Amy said.
“Not that way, at least,” Jelena said, releasing Amy’s arm. She had kept the secret close to her heart for so long, she couldn’t bear the thought of someone guessing, someone pitying her for her weakness. Especially Amy, who, though kind and generous, talked nonstop about everything and anything she heard or saw. If the secret got back to Michael —
“Well, then?” Amy demanded.
“Today is my seventh year.”
Amy slanted her eyes at Jelena. “The elders haven’t said anything, have they?” She immediately answered herself. “No, and why would they? They must believe you’ll awaken sooner or later.”
Jelena lifted her eyes to look at her friend. Amy’s green gaze was open and kind. Jelena bit her lip, hesitating, then said, “I think Michael may have persuaded the elders not to pronounce the dōm. I’m sure they would have done something before now without his influence.”
Amy glanced up from the tunic she was working on. “Have you asked him?”
Jelena sucked in a sharp breath. Of course not. She would never ask him a thing like that. “I’m not the only one who thinks so,” she said, darting a glance at Teresa.
“Well, what of it?” Amy demanded. “No one’s ever awakened after the elders have pronounced the dōm. Why would Michael want you to be stuck in your state forever?”
“Of course he doesn’t, no one does. I was just saying I think he had something to do with the elders — ”
“Good for him,” Amy said.
Amy didn’t understand. How could Jelena explain? She didn’t want Michael to intercede on her behalf. But she didn’t want to be unawakened, either. Jelena occasionally wondered if the elders had a list, a big book tucked away somewhere that the makers had left behind, with all the names of the unawakened in it. If so, her name was probably listed there. Why didn’t they just look her up and say so? And if they didn’t have a list … how could they be sure? Was there something in the judgment that made it impossible for one to awaken once it had been pronounced? Because surely the elders weren’t infallible.
“Good for him,” Amy said again. “What’s wrong with him standing up for you? If he cares for you — ”
“It’s not because he cares for me,” Jelena interrupted, her voice a hiss.
Amy stared at her, mouth open. “Of course that’s why.”
“It’s because he doesn’t want to fail,” Jelena said.
“Nonsense,” Amy said stoutly, but her hands had stopped working and she focused all of her attention on Jelena, waiting for an explanation.
“A protector whose newlyborn is declared unawakened has failed,” Jelena said.
“Who says that?” Amy demanded. “I’ve never heard it.”
“They don’t say it openly,” Jelena said, waving a hand at they; the people. “What other explanation could there be for why most newlyborn awaken but some don’t?”
Amy shrugged. “It could be anything.”
“They think the protector failed in some crucial, significant way,” Jelena explained.
“Well, if Michael is a failure…” Amy began.
“Exactly. It wouldn’t just affect him. It would affect everyone.”
Was that why the elders had let it go on so long? Season after season, year after year? Because they were afraid of damaging Michael’s reputation? But by the same token, by letting the protector serve this long, the elders prevented Michael from being as effective as he could be — the demands heaped upon him would have exhausted a lesser man.
The elders pretended to serve the interests of the community, but it appeared to Jelena that they never asked the community what their interests were
. Still, that was a conflict in her heart, her unwillingness to trust the elders. Michael and the elders had repeatedly assured her that if she could just release the conflict in her heart, she would awaken and everything would turn out right. She would awaken and find her true calling.
Perhaps they were right. But she found it very hard to trust.
Amy handed over the repaired tunic and waved away Jelena’s thanks. “That’s what friends are for,” she said, with the air of someone imparting a profundity. She pulled her own materials out of her chest, smoothing the wool out on her lap. Her thick fingers were not as clumsy as she claimed, and her stitches were quick, neat and precise. “Have you talked to Viktor lately? After the service this morning, I cornered him and told him how beautiful his music is. Do you know what he said?”
Jelena grinned. She knew her friend was trying to distract her from her cares by changing the subject and she appreciated the effort. “No, what did he say?”
Amy grinned back. “Nothing,” she said, amazement in her tone. Jelena didn’t doubt her amazement; gregarious, bold Amy with her infectious laugh rarely encountered anyone, male or female, who did not respond to her obvious charms. “He said nothing to me. He just looked at me with those big sad eyes of his, like he didn’t quite understand the language I was speaking.”
Jelena laughed. She could picture Viktor doing just that; tilting his head as he listened to what Amy said but not responding because he had nothing to say. He never thought of his music as having a particular quality or characteristic. He didn’t even really think of it as coming from him — he had once told Jelena it came through him, that was all — so it was not something he expected to be thanked for or complimented over. It simply existed, like the air they breathed, necessary and there. The people would surely miss it if it were gone, but judgment about the music — good or bad, beautiful or ugly — did not measure into it.
Amy shook her head at Viktor’s foibles and picked up her sewing. “On the other hand, he is easy on the eyes. He’s never been partnered, has he?”
“No,” Jelena said, then amended, “not that I know of, anyway.” Viktor had always been just Viktor to her, a friend who offered kindnesses, and she had never considered him in that light before. She supposed it was because if she thought of that, she immediately thought of Michael. She sighed. She’d be better off dreaming of Viktor.
“I’m telling you, I wouldn’t mind a little partnership with Viktor,” Amy admitted, laughing low in her throat as she worked thread through the fabric in her lap. “The main reason I want to awaken is so that I can pursue certain extracurricular activities currently discouraged for those in my state.”
Jelena let out a shout of laughter that she promptly smothered with a hand over her mouth as all eyes in the room turned to her, most of them disapproving. Unseemly displays of mirth suggested that work wasn’t being accomplished. Then Alaric winked at her and that made her feel better. She picked up her sewing again and looked at Amy.
“Most people want to awaken so that they can find their calling and serve the community,” she whispered with mock reproach in her voice. “Are you telling me you want to awaken so that you can climb under the covers with a man?” The thought vaguely thrilled her; if she awakened, then she might — she and Michael might — but that would never happen. Never.
“That’s precisely what I’m telling you,” Amy said. They glanced at each other and snorted with laughter, ignoring the quelling looks directed towards them. “And not just a man,” she said. “Although I have moments when any man would do. But I want someone who has hidden depths. You know, like Viktor. Or Michael.”
“Michael has no hidden depths,” Jelena said savagely, jabbing the needle into her thumb again.
Amy glanced at her in surprise, opened her mouth to speak, paused, and then said, “You’re right, no hidden depths. How about Alaric?” which prompted Jelena into another snort of laughter. Alaric, with his ruddy face and rotund belly, his back-slapping camaraderie and his loud snores that Amy had frequently complained of, was not a man one would generally think of as having hidden depths, although Jelena could vouch for his ability to make sure everyone had a good time. Maybe hidden depths were overvalued. Maybe she should turn her attention to Alaric, who would never have let seven years pass without taking action.
“What on earth are you finding so funny?” Teresa called across the room. A smile curved her lips but didn’t reach her eyes. Her smile rarely reached her eyes; her penetrating stare discomfited and prickled. Jelena and Amy were saved from the necessity of answering by the harried day-keeper who stuck her head in the room and announced, “Twelfth hour of the day! Time for evening meal! Twelfth hour!” before rushing off.
Jelena and Amy scrambled to their feet, taking a few moments to tuck their sewing away and to close their chests and put them aside. They wouldn’t return to the workshop until the next day. Amy hooked her arm in Alaric’s, smiling broadly and giving Jelena a suggestive leer as she did so. Jelena smiled and shook her head as the two headed off to the dining hall.
She took an extra moment to stretch the kinks out from sitting hunched over her work for several hours. How unproductive she’d been, she thought with a sigh. Fortunately, no one supervised her work; the people assumed that everyone gave their best effort and everyone did — except for times like today. But Jelena supposed everyone had off days, even the awakened, even the called. The unawakened probably did, too, but they wouldn’t dare indulge very often and would never draw attention to their idle hands by laughing as much as she and Amy had done today.
Then Michael, whom she hadn’t seen enter the workroom, appeared beside her, making her start in surprise. He moved like one of the cougars they sometimes came across in the forest, Jelena thought disagreeably, springing from nowhere, always sudden, always unexpected, allowing no time to prepare or react. She stood rigid. His heat, his nearness, his very scent alerted her, aroused her. With no time to prepare she was afraid her reaction showed on her face, in the softening of her lips or the light of desire in her eyes. If he ever found out — if anyone ever found out —
I saw the way you looked at Michael, Amy had said this afternoon.
Jelena would have to hope that Amy never mentioned what she saw to anyone. She turned toward the door. His hand touched her shoulder and she stopped in her tracks, the stiffness leaving her body at the feel of his fingers against her skin. Standing behind her, he rubbed her tense shoulders gently with his warm, firm hands, his thumbs describing circles on the back of her neck, relaxing her body. A sigh of pleasure escaped her lips before she jerked herself back to her senses and stepped away from him, saying impersonally, “Thank you, that helped a lot.”
Michael gave her a curious look but let her go. He didn’t say anything. Much of the time she could bear his touch without desperately wanting more, but other times — other times she could not. Other times, like today, she wanted — she wanted — well, she wanted.
She shook her head to clear it, then looked around the room to make sure she had put her materials away. Michael could rattle her so badly she couldn’t think, couldn’t remember from one moment to the next. If he noticed, he never said so.
Jelena saw Teresa watching them from across the room, her eyes slitted with curiosity. Apparently she had noticed. Then Teresa turned with a smile to her protector, Charmaine, and said brightly, “All set.” The four of them left the workshop together and set off for the dining hall, Michael and Charmaine talking easily about the new pony Rufus the Horsemaster had acquired from the Umluans, a short shaggy beast that provoked shouts of laughter among the riders who were accustomed to their taller, leaner mounts.
“Rufus is determined to understand how the Umluans could use the ponies in their cavalry. They’re quite successful,” Charmaine said.
“And what has he learned?”
“That the pony has an evil temper
and an aversion to the bit,” Charmaine said, and Michael laughed. “But Rufus is nothing if not persevering,” she added.
“He was a rodeo cowboy,” Michael said.
In his pastself, it went without saying. Jelena tried to think if she knew what a rodeo was.
“Probably broke every bone in his body then, too,” Charmaine said.
With a pang, Jelena remembered how the trader had bargained with the Trinitarians for a big bay stallion at about the same time Rufus had purchased the pony. It was generally agreed that the trader had obtained the far better deal and the stablehands gave the horsemaster no end of grief over his acquisition — the horsemaster being no horse trader like old Gregorius the Trader.
Now Gregorius was gone and the people blamed it on the wolves.
Teresa spoke suddenly, materializing next to Jelena, her voice pitched low as she cast a discreet glance over her shoulder to be sure Charmaine and Michael couldn’t overhear. “Did you hear about Danielle?” she asked.
“No,” Jelena said in a flat voice that invited no further comment even as a coil of uncertainty snaked through her. Danielle served on the riders under Michael. What about her? And what did she have to do with Jelena or Teresa? Jelena forced herself to keep a disinterested expression on her face. It never did to encourage Teresa in her talk.
Teresa persisted despite Jelena’s apparent lack of interest. “They say she carries a trueborn.”
“Mmm,” Jelena said noncommittally, although the gossip surprised her. Danielle was not partnered with anyone, though that didn’t mean she couldn’t be pregnant. The people and the elders didn’t encourage such things outside partnering but after all, the important thing was to have trueborn children. Trueborn children belonged to the tribe, no matter their parentage, and the elders were always anxious that more trueborns be brought into the world. This was as the makers decreed. And yet there were so few trueborns.
Sometimes, Jelena knew, the elders despaired of ever creating the world they believed they were intended to make. Privately, Jelena thought everyone should be her own maker, but she had never voiced such a shocking thought aloud. So the elders prayed to the makers for guidance though Jelena had never seen any evidence that it was forthcoming.
Children of the Wolves Page 4
