The Wolf's Mate: A Tale of the Holtlands, Book 2

by R. F. Long

  The Enchassa’s grip closed around his throat. “Let’s end this, you and I,” she whispered, her breath like the first warning of a snowstorm.

  “Don’t forget me,” Jeren hissed, her voice brittle from beneath them. She seized Shan’s hand and thrust the knife he was still holding right at the Enchassa’s heart. With a howl of rage the Fell’na threw herself back, turning to avoid it, and the blade sliced along her forearm, trailing a smear of tarry blood behind it.

  In a flurry of snow and shadows, she was gone.

  Breathing hard, Shan let the cold wash through him, out of him. Jeren was a limp bundle in his arms, too light, too chilled to be safe there. He sucked in another breath, held it, let it go. Too close. That had been far too close. Fool that he was, he had let the Enchassa touch him, had fallen beneath her spell like a child. Only Jeren had saved them. Everyone underestimated her.

  Sometimes even himself.

  Her eyes opened, clouded and groggy. “You…you aren’t hurt?”

  Shan shook his head, words choking in his throat. She smiled, actually smiled at him, and closed her eyes again, nestling against him despite the coldness of the night. The wind sliced around them like a knife of Fey’na steel. They couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. Couldn’t go through all that, and then die of exposure. That would be bitter indeed.

  He managed to pull her into the shelter before his own strength failed him too and they huddled together for warmth and safety until dawn.

  The Wolf's Mate: A Tale of the Holtlands, Book 2

  Chapter Two

  They limped down the mountain’s slope in the early morning light until not long before noon, when Shan called a rest. If he was unusually careful of her that morning, if he spoke merely to give directions and speak of their surroundings, Jeren didn’t press the matter. Shadows hung around his eyes. She closed her hand around his and held him. At first she thought he might pull away, but he didn’t.

  It took time before he spoke. “I almost lost you.”

  “What were they?”

  “Fell’na. Cousins to my people, if you like, corrupted by magic and their devotion to their own dark god.”

  “Fell,” she murmured, staring into the distance. “There’s a nursery rhyme.

  Fell is fell and Fair is fair,

  Stray not in the shadows, you’ll find them there,

  The others will dance with the sun in their hair,

  But Fell is fell and Fair is fair.”

  She quoted the old words in a singsong voice, wondering at the warning it carried about his people too. “We call them Fell and they’re something to frighten children.”

  “They’re something to frighten everyone. And no story or rhyme for babes. Curse it, Jeren…”

  He brought his hand up, tilting her head back so he could kiss her. In spite of her fears and the nightmare such a kiss had become last night, Jeren knew all would be well so long as he could kiss her. She melted beneath his touch, indulging in the sensations while they lasted. His soft lips were both gentle and demanding, insistent…yes, that was the word. She returned the kiss, her hands closing on his shoulders.

  A movement behind them brought Shan to his feet, sliding his sword from the scabbard. Jeren twisted around to face this new threat, her body poised to attack.

  “Shan’ith Al-Fallion,” said a voice from amid the rocks and the scrub above them, “you’ve become slow in your time with humans.” A laugh punctuated the words. “Or maybe you’re just distracted.”

  A Fey’na warrior rose from his hiding place. His braided white hair was longer than Shan’s and, though broader across the chest, he stood a little shorter. But he wore the same grey hand-stitched leathers, and in his features Jeren could see many similarities. There was a ghost of Shan’s smile, the way the skin crinkled around the silvery eyes.

  “Indarin.” Shan sheathed both sword and knife and stepped forward to embrace his fellow warrior. “Jeren, this is my brother, Indarin. And this is Jeren of River Holt.”

  Abruptly the easy grin dropped from Indarin’s face. “River Holt? She’s True Blood?” He jerked away from Shan with a snarl. “She is, isn’t she? She’s his blood kin. What are you doing with a Scion of Jern, Shan? Have you lost all reason?”

  Swallowing her pride, Jeren got to her feet. How did one formally address a Sh’istra’Phail warrior? She had no idea. There was nothing formal in her relationship with Shan. She would just have to try to do her best. “Indarin, I realise my brother did a terrible thing to—”

  “Oh you do, do you?” Indarin interrupted. “He’s a murderer, a defiler, a rapist…he’s a curse.”

  She stood firm, facing him squarely. “And worse,” she continued. “Much worse. You cannot possibly imagine.”

  Indarin’s expression did not change though he fell silent. He studied her a moment longer and then turned to Shan. “Why do you bring her here?”

  The moment dragged on too long and she lowered her gaze to hide her dismay. What had she hoped for? Born with stolen magic flowing with the blood in their veins, the True Blood were either exalted or accursed depending on who spoke of them. When the magic ran wild, as it did in her brother Gilliad, it brought madness and destruction. The True Blood could be a danger to all.

  But Shan’s words, when they came, startled her beyond expectations.

  “I love her,” Shan said.

  Indarin sucked in a breath. “You’re mad. Bad enough choose a human, a Holter, but a True Blood? A Scion of Jern?”

  Shan shook his head and a short, bitter laugh burst from him. “When it comes to love, Indarin, I no longer believe in choice.”

  And Jeren wasn’t sure whether that made it better or worse.

  ***

  In theory, Jeren of River Holt knew more about the Fey’na, whom her people called the Fair Ones, than any other human alive. But that didn’t help her much as she struggled along the mountain path behind the Fey’na brothers, cursing under her breath. The gown she wore was still too heavy and formal for walking at speed, even though she had shed the underskirts and slashed the material for ease of movement.

  They had not dared stop in a Holtlands settlement to try to trade for other clothes. Not that they had anything they could easily trade, even if they had.

  The narrow path, its edges eaten away by gorse and heather, wound down into a valley greener than she imagined possible after travelling so long through the snow. Though still north of River Holt, they were finally on lower ground and nearer to the sea, she guessed. Or perhaps spring was finally on its way. Or maybe it was because of the people living here—as all the world knew, the Fey’na were the first children of the gods and blessed for that.

  In the valley below she could just pick out the small settlement, a gathering of round hide tents, patches of leather amid the green. The breeze carried the scents and the sounds of a small village, the distinctive smell of a forge and the unmistakable sound of metal hammering against metal. Elsewhere two lithe figures sparred with long blades, their movements quick and dangerous, sunlight gleaming off the weapons and the long white-blond braids of their hair.

  Indarin paused on the ridge and gave a cry, a long deep-throated “Ho” calling for attention. Below them, everything stopped. Other Fey’na emerged from shelter, stepped out into view so they could see what the scout had brought.

  The two sparring warriors turned as well. One was a woman, and even at this distance Jeren could see her heart-stopping beauty. The Sh’istra’Phail’s eyes widened at first with surprise and then warmed with joy as she beheld Shan. Something cold stirred in the pit of Jeren’s stomach.

  “A bright hour brings you home, Shan,” the warrior woman called up to them, a rich and mellow voice full of pleasure and promise. “Come down to us and tell of…” Her voice faded as Jeren stepped into view. The pleasure in those silver eyes faded to confusion. And something worse, far worse.

  “Come, little one.” Shan wrapped the warmth of his hand around Jeren’s suddenly frozen
fingers. “It is time for us to tell all.”

  Shan knew hostility intimately. Whenever he travelled to other lands he encountered it. Humans had no time for the Fey’na, the monsters of many a childhood tale. But he had never thought to see it so naked on the faces of his own people before. He wished they would direct it at him rather than at Jeren. That would have been easier to bear by far. She had not asked to come here. They’d had no choice. Neither had she asked to be born the sister of a madman. Why was it no one here recalled her father when he had lived among them? There were many old enough, for the Fey’na did not age as a human aged. No, they only recalled Gilliad, his flouting of their laws and friendship, his betrayal of their most sacred ways—and the murder.

  Gilliad had killed his sister, his sister, for the Lady’s sake. If he could put his need for vengeance behind him, why could no one else?

  Shan knew Jeren sensed it too. Her hand trembled in his, her grip tightening, but to her credit she didn’t hold back or stop. He had never doubted her courage.

  “There’s a ritual of welcome first,” he murmured so only she would hear. “I’m going to start it, and it will give you a few moments before they start asking questions. It will be all for the good, little one, I swear it.”

  “If you’re sure,” she replied stoutly.

  Ah, he loved her bravery, the inner strength she didn’t appear to realise she possessed.

  But before he could speak, Ylandra bustled her way through the gathered Sh’istra’Phail. In one hand she was still holding her sword from sparring practice. In the other nestled a white-hilted knife, almost identical to his sect knife but for the colour—the Sect Knife. It was Shan’s turn to stare in disbelief.

  Indarin came to a halt beside him. “Yes, there’s that too.” His brother sighed.

  Shan shot him a glare and then returned his attention to Ylandra and her knife. Its presence alone spoke of great changes in his sect.

  “Greetings to you, Sect Mother.” He acknowledged her rise in station with a curt bow of his head.

  “Do you eschew our ritual tongue now as well as your people?” Her eyes flashed. “There are traditions to observe, Shan.”

  Traditions that had been put aside for some years, traditions the previous Sect Mother had felt were unnecessary. But Vala was Sect Mother no more. Had age finally caught up with her? He’d have to quiz Indarin and none too kindly, for this should have been the first bit of information imparted. So Ylandra had become Sect Mother in his absence, and she was enforcing the old form of ritual greeting. And what else, he wondered.

  Shan bowed his head and released Jeren, spreading his hands out wide in supplication. He couldn’t say it didn’t grate. Sh’istra’Phail were proud and free. They bowed to no one but the leader of all the Fey’na, Ariah herself. The problem was, he couldn’t afford to offend Ylandra, for Jeren’s sake. So now, he bowed.

  “Ghen’is, M’Rashina,” he said in the lyric tongue of the gods, the high and holy language reserved for only the most formal of occasions. “Will you welcome home your returning son?”

  The whole camp fell silent around them. It felt like a thread pulled tight, waiting to snap.

  Then Ylandra inclined her head in formal acceptance. “Ghen’is, M’Roi. And who is this you bring with you?”

  Shan kept his eyes trained on the ground, picking his words carefully. “A human of River Holt who seeks that which we have sworn always to give to her line: shelter, guidance and friendship. Her name is Jeren, Scion of Jern.”

  He looked up just in time to see Ylandra’s eyes flare wide, but to her credit she didn’t voice her surprise. She waited until the outcry around her subsided.

  “I fear the Scions of Jern have forsaken our friendship.” Her voice was like a river of ice. “So why does this one suddenly have need of us?”

  “Nonetheless, Jeren asks it.”

  Ylandra folded her arms across her chest and looked Jeren up and down appraisingly.

  A surge of sudden anger rocked through Jeren’s body—Shan saw it flush her skin, harden her eyes to knife points—driving out the fear and apprehension that had frozen her so far. Ylandra looked on her like a piece of dirt. Jeren held herself still and calmly met Ylandra’s gaze when it returned to her eyes. She was a Lady of River Holt, a descendent of heroes. Her pride would not permit her to be faced down in this manner. And he loved her for it.

  “She gave the call.” Shan interrupted their standoff, afraid they would hear the desperation in his voice. “She gave the cry of the Sh’istra’Phail soul. You cannot refuse.”

  Ylandra cast him only the briefest glance to remind him that as Sect Mother she could refuse and no one would gainsay her.

  “Can she not ask for herself?” Ylandra asked finally, her eyes boring into Jeren’s.

  Blood beat a rhythmic tattoo at the base of Shan’s throat but he could do nothing, not if Jeren was to be accepted here. If he stood up for her now, they would see her as weak. Jeren’s temper coloured her cheeks even more, but she reined it in and bowed gracefully. Not a curtsey. She was facing a warrior. Her ancestor Felan had argued his way into a sect. Perhaps she could do the same. Shan hoped so.

  “Sect Mother, forgive me that I do not know your high words to ask. I humbly petition the Sh’istra’Phail of this sect, and the people of the Fey’na for shelter, safety and guidance. I am Jeren, Scion of Jern, and I am True Blood. My kin have turned traitor, my brother seeks to imprison me and has taken a Fey’na’s life.”

  The hum rose in the surrounding onlookers but Shan kept his eyes fixed on the two women, unable to tear them away.

  “I have nowhere else to go. My forefather Felan counted himself most fortunate to number amongst your warriors.” Jeren spread her hands wide before her in perfect mimicry of Shan’s supplication. Several of his people softened their hardened expressions and Shan’s heart leaped. “I have read and cherished every word, Sect Mother. I pray you give me sanctuary here.”

  She moved them, he could tell. His own heart twisted at the sound of her voice. And among the crowd he could hear whispers. “Just a child, really—we know Gilliad is a dangerous—what did he try to do to her?—if Shan, of all people trusts her—but she isn’t one of us, she’s one of them…”

  But the doubt was still there, always there when it came to a Holter. She might win some of them, given time. Once they got to know her, he had no doubt they would love her, care for her as one of their own. Not all of them, though.

  Shan had no choice. Some things were private and others could not remain so. Though he wanted to give her time, what time would they have if Ylandra refused to let Jeren stay? And she would. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. Ylandra hated the Holters. And she hated Jeren. Hated her even more than another Holter. But why?

  If he declared her his mate, here and now…even if the Sect Mother did not approve, she could hardly stand against Jeren then…

  Shan drew in a deep breath and something tightened to a stranglehold at the base of his throat. He was taking the choice away from Jeren. He only hoped she would understand. If Ylandra wanted the high tongue of the gods, then he would give it to her.

  “Estera cara’mae,” he declared boldly.

  Silence slammed over the gathering. Jeren looked at him, confused, unable to understand what he had just said. But Ylandra did. Colour drained from her face, bleaching her skin as if she were snow-touched. Her lips moved, trembled and her eyes glistened in the moment before they turned to granite.

  “You cannot mean this.” Ylandra’s hands closing to fists at her side. “She’s True Blood, serpent-born. Her brother murdered your sister!”

  Jeren flinched back at the words.

  “Whatever it takes, whatever the cost, Jeren must stay here,” he argued. “She’s his heir and his powers will pass to her should he die. She needs our protection.”

  “Then she’ll swear the oath of obedience. If she’s willing to be Sh’istra’Phail, she will swear to abide by my will as Sect
Mother.”

  “I will,” Jeren cut in before Shan could intervene. “I swear it. I will obey the Sect Mother.”

  That mollified the Sect Mother, and a bitter chill of foreboding ran down Shan’s spine.

  “Whatever it takes,” Ylandra echoed. A hint of malevolence stained her eyes. “Very well, I agree, if you will in turn agree to my terms.”

  “Terms?” Indarin’s voice rang out across the silent crowd, the last person Shan expected to come to his aid. “I might agree he’s gone insane, Ylandra, but what’s this talk of terms when it comes to a man and his mate? You can’t impose terms.”

  The word mate made Jeren’s gaze snap onto him.

  Later , he tried to tell her with his look. I will explain everything. I will make it up to you and hold you to nothing you do not want. Please trust me now, my love. Please, just this little while.

  “Really?” asked Ylandra. “I invoke the duty of Service on Shan’ith Al-Fallion. I bind him as blood warrior and guardian of both this sect and the Sect Mother until such time as the threat is past. As such he must give up all other ties and devote himself solely to the protection of his people.”

  As if the world had dropped from beneath his feet, Shan’s stomach lurched in panic and dismay. How he remained still, he could not tell. She couldn’t! But his voice fell still as stone in his throat.

  “No!” another voice yelled, a woman outraged, but not Jeren.