by Leah Swann
Over the years, Niklas slowly came to trust Vilmos. Eventually he was given his own room in Pavel Castle. Vilmos was clever. He knew how to imitate the appearance of goodness. He stayed close to Niklas and learned many of the secrets of the Kingdom. He also learned much about King Harmon and Queen Chloe…
Chapter Twelve
Growing Up
‘William,’ whispered Octavia, late one night. ‘Irina’s gone out to the moon again.’
‘What of it, woman?’ said William. ‘Can’t you see I'm asleep?’
‘But she hasn't done it for such a long time – not since she first arrived.’
William didn't answer. Octavia got up and wrapped herself in her warmest shawl and crept outside.
The wild little child was gone; Irina was now almost as tall as Octavia. She was sturdy, slim and upright and walked swiftly to the edge of the fields, dragging her bedcover with her for warmth.
When she was little, she would go outside on moonlit nights and listen to the distant sounds of wolves howling. Her own, answering howl spilled out of her, a howl full of longing for Sheka. Irina had never forgotten the ferocious affection of the wolf-mother. She longed to run her hands through that warm pelt, to nuzzle up to her in the safety of the cave. Sheka's fur, her smell, her milk, her glittering stare and her wolf-words lived on in Irina's memory. She thought often of Durrell, too, and this was even more painful. Was he still alive?
‘I will never forget you,’ Irina whispered, her breath like a cloud in the night's cold air.
Nearby, Octavia listened to her words from where she was hiding behind a pear tree.
The next morning, Irina wove the flax thread through the loom that stood at one end of their little home. She didn't seem tired, though Octavia knew she had been out all night. Her fingers flew back and forth, fluid as ribbon; her long hair was unbrushed and unbraided.
‘Girl, girl,’ Octavia scolded, taking the antler comb and dragging it through Irina's long locks.
‘I’m trying to work,’ said Irina, tossing her head.
‘That’s no reason to look like a wild woman with rat's nest hair.’
Irina laughed, dodging the comb. ‘I like rat's nest hair,’ she said, and then, ‘Oww! Must you be so rough?’ Her thin, wiry arms worked furiously over the cloth while Octavia combed out the knots.
William came in, carrying the milk pail. ‘Making linen for my new summer shirt, I hope. Can I have Irina today? I'm going hunting.’
‘No,’ said Octavia, firmly. They often disagreed over where Irina would work. In the cottage she helped Octavia with cooking, sewing and weaving baskets or cloth. With William she threshed corn and millet, chopped wood, fed the animals, hunted and fished. Irina loved using the strength of her body together with the earth and she loved working with William.
‘Irina’s gathering herbs for me today,’ Octavia went on. ‘We need calendula; the wife of the village chief is coming. After that I need her to help me make the potions.’
William sighed. ‘Not one of the farmhands is as good a shot as Irina. If you let me take her, we could have pheasant for dinner. You can see in the dark, can't you, pet?’
Irina laughed but said nothing. By now she knew that other humans didn't have the abilities she had.
William plonked the milk pail onto the table and stomped noisily back to the stables.
‘I’ve packed a basket for you,’ Octavia said, ladling milk into a wooden cup and handing it to Irina.
Irina paused to drink. Soft spring light came through the open door. Amicus flew to Irina's shoulder and cooed in her ear. Octavia knew that Irina could understand him.
‘Mother, what is the Age of Peace you spoke of yesterday, when we were at the Shrine?’ she asked, pushing Amicus gently from her shoulder.
There was a small Shrine to the Junsong on the farm and every season, neighbouring families would gather there to celebrate. The villagers had long ago accepted the strange little wolf-girl with her curious mixture of words and wolf-cries. When they first knew her, Irina ran about on all fours as much as she walked like other children; as the years passed, her wolfish playfulness grew less, and her words more clear.
‘My teacher told me there would come a peaceful time when the wars would end,’ said Octavia, putting the comb aside and plaiting Irina's hair.
‘When?’
‘When the three regions of Ragnor would unite.’
‘Under one king?’
‘I think so. But the Dragon of the Narrowlands must be killed first.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he starts all the wars. He demands feeding; he loves to eat the truth-lovers from the south.’
Irina shivered. She whispered, ‘Do they take soldiers to be eaten?’
‘Yes,’ said Octavia. ‘And women and children, too. Sometimes they are taken during a war and sometimes they are kidnapped by Narrowlands spies.’
‘That’s horrible.’
‘Yes,’ said Octavia. ‘But that's the way it's always been. Now get along with you. Enough of this gloomy talk.’
Irina kissed her and took the basket. Octavia watched her adopted daughter's determined step towards the forest, her hair now neatly braided and the sylvan fluttering above her as always. How unusual and precious she was! But the love in Octavia's heart had a twist of pain.
‘You won't always be mine to care for, dear little wolf-girl,’ she said softly. ‘I may have won you back from the untamed ways of the woodlands, but the wild remains within you. You're marked out for something. I just don't know what.’
Chapter Thirteen
Irina Meets the Wise-woman
Gathering herbs was one of Irina's favourite tasks, but she loved turning the roots, leaves and flowers into potions even more. Country folk travelled for hours for Octavia's herbs: chamomile cream for calming nerves or healing sticky eyes; aloe vera to soothe burns; calendula for wounds; dandelion brew to fix warts, and ginger root tea to ease stomach aches.
The earth was cold underfoot and new yellow-green leaves swarmed the trees like butterflies. It was still Irina's habit to look for wolf tracks, but that morning all she saw were the tiny imprints of bird claws and a set of marks that may have been made by a hare.
When her basket was heavy with clippings and roots, Irina sat down beneath an odom tree and unwrapped the parcel Octavia had prepared: chunky bread, a piece of cheese and a leather jack of milk. She offered some crumbs to Amicus with one hand while eating with the other. The sun warmed her. Relaxed, she leaned back against the trunk and closed her eyes.
Often, when Irina rested, she had a kind of daydream. It was always the same: she saw a young woman wearing a robe and a curiously tall crown. This girl-woman had glittering eyes like Sheka's, eyes that could stare for a long time without blinking. She spoke urgently to Irina, ‘Wake up, wake up! You're sleeping, little sister. Don't you know me? You are me.’
‘Who are you?’ cried Irina, rousing from her doze. As always, the daydream was disturbing. ‘I should never rest during the day. I hate that girl,’ she said to Amicus.
‘What girl?’ he cooed.
‘Oh, a girl in my dream – I can't explain.’
She glanced down at her hands folded in her lap, at her jute dress and apron, at the leather boots lined with sheepskin that William had made for her. The skin on her hands was scratched from picking roots; her fingernails short and ridged with dirt.
‘This is real,’ she said, and pinched the thick cloth of her dress. Raising her head, she was surprised to find a hare less than a foot away from her, squatting on his hind legs.
‘Hello, you lovely creature,’ said Irina, holding out her hand. She was used to animals coming close to her. She went to stroke his glossy brown pelt and stopped; it seemed disrespectful somehow.
‘What can I do for you, wise one?’ she said.
The hare was still and silent. Birdsong died away in the trees above. Amicus stopped his fluttering. There was something peaceful and inviting about the hare
's warm, brown eyes and the more Irina stared, the more it seemed she was entering a hidden world. How strange. It was a knotty, gnarled place of caves and kingdoms. When Irina saw soldiers on horseback charging and women weeping over lost children she became frightened. She saw a sword plunged into the earth. Above it was a mighty angel, far mightier than anything she had ever dreamed. He placed his hands over the sword's handle and raised it above his head, ready to pierce the sky. This angel was not the goddess Jun, so who was he? Beyond, she saw a row of seven doors, each one locked. Six of the doors were the height of a woman but the seventh was small, like a cupboard door.
A twig snapped and the hare moved. Irina felt a curious sensation, like she was backing out of a long tunnel, and she thought she heard the rustling of cloth dragging over leaves. Before she could turn towards the sound, Amicus suddenly let out a long, joyous note.
There, behind the hare, was an old crone. Her skin was as withered as a fallen apple and her hair covered her head sparsely, in long, woolly strands. She wore a floor-length wrap made of furs, and held a basket of stones over one arm. Her neck, arms and shoulders were bare and beneath her skin veins seemed to twitch and move as thick and lively as the brambles twined around her head. Her eyes were partly obscured by the heavy folds of her eyelids, but they gleamed darkly, like wet stones in a river.
The crone was studying Irina with such concentration that it seemed to pour from her in waves, wrapping Irina warmly and firmly. Irina had never seen the woman before and yet she felt as if she had always known her.
Instinctively, barely conscious of what she was doing, Irina knelt.
Chapter Fourteen
The Witch's Brew
Irina followed Raizel through the woods. The hare leapt beside the old woman's skirts, looking back from time to time, while Amicus glided above, delighted to see Irina and his old mistress together. As she walked, Raizel occasionally dropped a rock from her basket to the earth and tamped it down with her foot.
After walking for some time, they came to a small hut, made from rows of kenda saplings bound with rope and lined with thick clay. Inside the hut it was very quiet and dark, and fragrant with the smell of kenda wood.
The quiet is so deep in here, thought Irina, her eyes adjusting to the dark. It's the sound of nothing.
At the foot of Raizel's bed was a fireplace. A pot hung over it, suspended from a branch that lay across a small hole in the roof. On an altar lay a carved sword, a silver arrow, a handmade book, a few candles and a small painting.
Raizel knelt and lit a fire under the pot. Before long came the sounds of simmering and bubbling, and a strange smell filled the hut. Irina sat on a lambskin rug by the fire while Raizel dipped a wooden ladle into the pot and spooned the liquid into two earthenware cups. She handed Irina one, gesturing that the wolf-girl should drink.
It was an unusual brew, neither tea nor soup. Its dark pungency reminded Irina of tree sap and her eyes stung at the potent taste. As she drank, the flavour grew warm and salty and finally as sweet as honey. Afterwards she felt stunned, and sat in motionless silence. Her arms and legs felt hot and clean, as though she'd been scrubbed on the inside.
Durrell suddenly came into her thoughts. She remembered the smell of his fur, the rhythm of his powerful body tearing through the woods. She remembered also the vision she had seen in the hare's eyes.
‘Who is the angel?’ Irina asked the old woman, who was ladling the potion into stone bottles and leather jacks and stopping them with corks. Her voice still had a feral edge to it, a ragged sound left over from the wolf-talk of her babyhood. At the sound of it, Raizel looked at her intently. Noticing the old woman's closed lips and attentive eyes, Irina realised she was mute.
Raizel took a stick, sharpened it with a knife and drew the image of the angel and the sword in the dirt floor.
‘Yes, yes!’ said Irina. ‘How did you know?’
Raizel closed her eyes, dropped to her knees and bowed her head, her hands clasped. Irina knelt uncertainly beside her.
Then Raizel rose, took the stick and drew a line in the ground. At the top and the bottom she drew two short horizontal lines. Then she took Irina's hand and pressed it against the girl's chest.
‘Me?’ said Irina. The old woman shook her head and gestured for her to speak again.
‘I,’ said Irina.
Raizel nodded. Irina knew about letters. She had seen the little book of herbs that Octavia kept wrapped in a cloth; inside were letters and drawings of plants. None of her friends among the farm children could read. So when Raizel took down the book from the shelf and handed it to Irina, she felt a ripple of excitement.
The book's cover was made of sturdy cloth, perhaps felt – although it was much thicker than the felt Irina made with Octavia. The writing inside was black and curling and interspersed with small paintings of flowers and birds and winged creatures. As she gazed at it, Irina felt a fierce desire to understand the letters.
‘These all mean something, don't they?’ she said to Raizel. ‘If I could understand these marks, I would understand the secret. The book would speak.’
The old woman nodded.
‘They’re like drawings.’
The mysterious symbols seemed to dance. She turned page after page until a sound from Amicus disturbed her reverie. The light through the small hole in the roof was growing dim. Sunset.
‘I have to go,’ said Irina, springing up and grabbing her basket. ‘Octavia will have been waiting for me all afternoon to make the medicines! Oh what trouble I'll be in!’
Chapter Fifteen
A Lake for An Orchard
In King Niklas's great hall, the wolf Seeley prowled backward and forward beneath the windowsill. The wicked magician Trayton had fed him a secret treat which made him jumpy. Nearby, the two kings, Prince Andor and Niklas's advisors – including Trayton – were examining an unrolled parchment map of Ragnor. King Niklas's realm was shaded in green while King Harmon's realm was coloured turquoise. The map had been illustrated by the priestesses of the Junsong, who were skilled in painting and calligraphy.
‘I’m interested in your lake in Ralston county,’ said King Niklas, pointing to a blue area on the map. ‘We only need to change the border slightly; the land on my side is so poor that the farmers can barely raise their crops. If we had access to the lake they could fish.’
‘But what about my subjects who make their living on the lake?’ said King Harmon.
‘They can become my subjects. In exchange, I'll give you this tract of rich farming land up here, in Ber County’ – Niklas gestured to a spot on the border – ‘which is full of beautiful pear orchards. Queen Chloe will eat pear tarts every autumn. I have many orchards while you have few; you have a large lake, and I have none. What do you say, King Harmon?’
‘No one likes to be forced to do anything,’ said Trayton. ‘I certainly wouldn't want to leave one king for another.’
Harmon glared at the magician, astonished at the interruption. The warrior king had never liked Trayton and often felt an uncanny urge to grab the man by the throat. He was puzzled as to why his friend, King Niklas, trusted him, with his silvery white fingers, the unpleasant serpent ring on his thumb, and his flowery perfume. What Harmon disliked most of all, though, was Trayton's insolent manner.
‘We always tell people our plans and let them discuss it,’ said King Niklas. ‘Sometimes we offer some sort of enticement, or reward…’
Harmon gave an impatient sigh.
‘What sort of enticement?’ asked Trayton, his mind scheming.
‘King Harmon and I –’
‘We don't have to answer questions,’ Harmon snapped, unable to bear the magician's rudeness for one more minute. ‘We kings decide what we decide. We seek no advice, certainly not from fancy magicians.’
Hearing the anger in Harmon's words, Niklas rose from his seat and asked everyone to leave the room. When they were alone, Harmon began his usual pacing. ‘I don't like that advisor of yours.’
‘You don't like anyone that you haven't known forever. Trust no one, isn't that your motto?’
‘Laugh at me if you will, but it's better to trust no one than to be betrayed,’ said Harmon grumpily, as he walked back to his chair. His boot grazed the tail of the wolf as he went by, and Seeley uttered a low growl.
‘And another thing, Niklas,’ said Harmon. ‘Must you keep a wolf as a bodyguard? Wolves, wily magicians…It's not the tradition.’
‘That’s where you're wrong. Years ago, before we forgot the ways of the Junsong, our rulers always had wolves living with them. My father's wise-man, Baruch, told me that.’
‘Wolves are no friends of mine,’ said Harmon. ‘We don't know that wolves killed your daughter,’ said Niklas, guessing his friend's thoughts. ‘The wolves of Ragnor have never touched humans. People tend to make up stories about things they fear. You know that.’
Vilmos stalked through the courtyard to the privacy of his sleeping chamber. He sat down on his bed, fuming. ‘Typical of that arrogant Harmon,’ he muttered. ‘Too bad for him I now know enough to cause him trouble.’ Absentmindedly, he fondled the opulent, embroidered bed-coverings and began to piece together a plan. The rats of Pavel Castle had grown to love him and chewed on his bootlaces. He pictured the beautiful Chloe, with her iridescent skin of moonlight. ‘Stink of blood, do I? Stink of death? I'll show you blood, lovely Chloe. I'll show you death.’ He turned Chloe's words over in his mind for the thousandth time. ‘You wanted a king, not an executioner's son. Well, your king was stupid to marry a commoner with witches in her family.’ Vilmos recalled his humiliation: the day of the midsummer duels, when Chloe had dressed as a knight and beaten him in a sword fight, and impressed the King.
