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

by R. F. Long

  The wolf called again.

  The night air made her skin tingle and stung her martyred eyes, but she pushed her way outside, hunting for that sound and its source. On deft feet she followed it out of the Sh’istra’Phail camp and into the trees. But it wasn’t a wolf that called her. Or at least no natural wolf.

  Shan stood in a small hollow out of sight of the camp and its patrols. In the moonlight he might have been a statue, so pale and finely sculpted did he appear. Jeren’s throat made a small whimper and she ran, tearing across the space between them in a mad dash.

  Shan opened his arms and enveloped her in a lover’s embrace. When she buried her face in his broad chest, his face sank into her hair, his breath warm and uneven against her scalp. His scent encircled her, the deep musk that only he carried, the scent she knew and loved.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  His heart beat even harder. “We’ll find a way, little one. I love you. I will not be parted from you like this.”

  “Indarin and Lara said when Ariah comes—”

  Shan shushed her gently, cupping her face in his hand. His long fingers curled against her cheek, ghosting against her skin. She tilted her face up to him and met his kiss.

  His mouth teased hers, dwelling on her lips until she parted them, his tongue exploring with great care and determination. And then she realised what he was doing. He was kissing her in such a way as to impress the sensations in his memory forever. He was kissing her goodbye.

  “No,” she gasped when she could breathe again, squirming closer.

  “Jeren.” His voice was a low growl. “I will not be parted from you. But you need to learn what Indarin can teach you. He’s more than half a seer. He’s the Shaman. You need to learn not just about the sword, but also how to control your powers. And I have a duty to my people, a responsibility. You understand that, don’t you?” He played with the sensitive strands of hair around her temples, threading the silken lengths through his long fingers.

  Duty, yes, she understood duty. And responsibility. She had forsaken both for him, hadn’t she? She tried to keep that flare of anger from her face, but it betrayed her.

  Shan sighed and pulled her close again. “What choice did you have but to escape, Jeren? Would you have stayed there and wed him? Would you have let him bed you?”

  This time her anger turned incandescent. It savaged its way through her and she shoved him back.

  “No,” she said in a voice of finest steel. “I would have found a way to fight him. I would have been there to protect my people. Instead I ran. With you.”

  “You’re safe here. Indarin will see to that.”

  “I’d be safe with you. That’s why I left. Come with me now. Let’s go somewhere else. There has to be another—”

  “No.” The word was final, absolute.

  Shock and betrayal sliced deep into her heart. What? She could leave her people, but he could not leave his? She could run and hide, but not him? A wave of cold washed through her and she struggled back from him, her mouth open, her eyes stinging. He was going. He was leaving her.

  He stepped after her, his arms reaching for her. “I’m sworn here. Until the threat of the Fell’na is gone or Ylandra releases me.”

  “But she won’t do that. She wants you! She wants you for herself.”

  Realisation flooded his face. Gods! Had he not realised that? Or was his horror at the fact that it was so obvious to her? Or worse—the thought made her stomach twist—did he reciprocate Ylandra’s feelings? Why not? She was his own kind, a Sect Mother, and a beautiful, fearsome warrior.

  Jeren flinched back from that thought, even as she recognised it as the truth. They were suited—Ylandra and Shan—a perfect match. Two beautiful, perfect beings, akin in strength and skill. And what was she? A freak, an outcast, strange even among her own kind, serpent-born, cursed.

  True Blood.

  “You’re my mate,” Shan told her in muted tones. A ripple of danger undercut his voice, and an icy determination. He stepped towards her again and this time Jeren didn’t pull back. She faced him, matching the iron she saw in him. “My wife, if you’ll have me. Nothing can change that. No matter what Ylandra wants, or what you think she has power to do.”

  Shaking, she gazed into his eyes, into the silver she loved so well. His lips pursed together, parted, and closed again. Nerves? He was nervous?

  “She’s very beautiful, Shan.”

  He chuckled bitterly. “Not so beautiful as you. She wouldn’t attempt half the things you’ve done for me. I’ve sworn myself to you as well, Jeren. If Ylandra thinks she can alter that, then she does not know me at all. And it seems, neither do you.”

  Jeren closed her eyes as he touched her, melted against him, the only warmth in the world. She looked up and with a shaking hand touched the woven band of leather around his neck. Small beads dotted the front, smooth and cold to the touch. She hated it. Truly hated it, a web of leather thongs and decorations. Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back. She couldn’t ask him to leave, no more than she could ask him to cut off his own braids and succumb to the madness that had taken Ha’ledren.

  No, madness hadn’t simply taken Ha’ledren. Gilliad had driven Shan’s sect brother insane, had tried to do the same to Shan. Her own shame rose up again. And her gratitude, that she and Shan had escaped. That they were free.

  My wife, if you’ll have me.

  She smiled up at him, forcing the tears away. Who wouldn’t have him? And he wanted her. Just her. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, and feel it. Most of all, she could feel it in her heart. They belonged together, no matter what, and no woven band placed on him by other duties and honour would change that. She believed it. She had to.

  “I am your wife,” she told him. “I always will be. If you forget all else, my love, remember that.”

  A smile drifted across his pale lips. “I could no more forget that than my name, or my mother’s face. You’re my light, little one. My guiding light to bring me home.”

  ***

  Lara rolled out of her bunk, bright and alert. “Are you ready?” she asked Jeren. “He’ll be waiting.”

  For a moment all Jeren could do was stare at her companion. Did she mean Shan? The spark of hope died as she remembered his kiss goodbye, the way she sensed his early departure, the silent tears she had wept into the bedroll. “Indarin?” she asked warily, as she pulled her clothes on.

  “Yes. He likes to start training early. You’ll like him. You’ll see. He’s special. A bit like you, I guess. He should have been a Seer. That’s what they say anyway. He’s our Shaman, though he dislikes drawing attention to the role. He prefers to pretend he doesn’t have magic at all. To fit in, I guess.” She shrugged. “That’s all most of us want, isn’t it?” She pushed back the flap and led the way outside. The morning was crisp and bright.

  “And why are you here?” Jeren followed her into the open air. “You don’t seem enraged or bitter or…”

  Lara rolled back her shoulders, stretching out her neck and back, tilting her face up to the sun, catlike and beautiful. “Not now perhaps, but my father was Sh’istra’Phail. And…” She let out her breath in a long rush. “And when he vanished, I knew…” Pursing her lips, she fixed Jeren with a meaningful glare. “I knew what happened to him, even before you arrived to tell us.”

  The bottom fell from Jeren’s world again. She stared, with her mouth hanging open, at the daughter of the Fey’na her brother had driven insane and killed, the event which had led her to first flee River Holt. She couldn’t find words. Her heart felt like it was cracking all over again.

  “Come,” said Lara softly, as if she knew, as if she understood. “We don’t want you to be late.”

  On the far side of the camp, where some of the younger Sh’istra’Phail were already sparring, exchanging good-humoured insults alongside the clash of fists or weapons, Indarin stood alone, an ominous figure in a dark grey cloak like a storm cloud. He was
already glaring at her. As she came to a halt before him, her stomach growled ominously.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she lied.

  Indarin gazed at her for a long moment, studying her. Then he shrugged and led her away, back across the camp and into the trees, to the same copse of trees where she had met Shan the previous night, the same hollow, the same spot. Indarin stood before her and her cheeks turned scarlet.

  “The two of you are playing with fire,” he said, his voice like the breeze through the trees. “Ylandra will cast you out if you meet him like that again.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but what was the point. He knew. There was no denying it, even if she wanted to. Instead, she bowed her head. She had been raised to obey, she had once told Shan. Now it seemed she would have to fall back into that habit, even if her new-born spirit resisted.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked in subdued tones.

  “I want you to leave, Jeren.”

  She started, her head jerking up. “You…you what?”

  He stepped back and his staff moved in a blur, sweeping right at her head. Jeren dropped and rolled, coming up just in time to see the butt stabbing towards her midsection. She jumped back, narrowly avoiding it. The training Shan had given her came naturally now. Part of her wondered if Indarin was really trying, his movements seemed so graceful, so leisurely, and yet another part knew that was a lie. The staff swept by her face, and the wind it stirred up blasted her hair back. If she had moved a moment later it would have struck and struck hard. She tried to back away and the next thing she knew her feet tangled around the staff and she went down heavily, the air dashed from her lungs. She looked up as the staff came hammering down at her.

  And stopped an inch from her forehead.

  Indarin gazed down the length at her, his face entirely calm. “Your instincts are good, and your reflexes well honed. He’s been teaching you?”

  She didn’t dare voice her reply, only nodded.

  Indarin walked around her, studying her in silence. “Why are you here?”

  “To…to learn.”

  He snorted briefly, and then tucked the end of his staff under her chin, not entirely gentle, nor rough, lifting her face to look at her. “Perhaps.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Another Holt would have taken you in.”

  “To be a political pawn. To be used against my brother. Or perhaps to sell me back to him. No, that wasn’t possible.”

  Indarin’s lips thinned. “You reason well too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And your magic…”

  She lifted herself back to her feet, moving slowly so as not to antagonise him again. Indarin just watched her, his eyes like ice. She couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell what he was thinking. It unnerved her. “I have to learn how to control it. Gilliad is…” She swallowed hard, curling her hands into fists at her side. “If you thought he was bad when he was here, that was before the curse took him.”

  “And?”

  Her breath fled. He wanted her to say it? Out loud?

  To say her brother was insane didn’t begin to cover it. Dark magic had consumed his mind, had led him to do unspeakable things. Not least to Lara’s father, to Shan, and the things he had planned to do to her. It was hard to look at her brother as anything other than a demon now. Easier, actually, than admit the truth.

  “And if anything happens to him, that could be me!” She advanced on him, step by step, and Indarin retreated, watching her like he would a wild animal. “I need to learn to control it rather than let it control me. I know a little. But it’s not enough.”

  “You really want to know?” Indarin asked, his face as placid as ever. “Very well. Let me see what you can do.”

  “What?” Bewilderment deflated her rage.

  “Show me your magic.”

  “I heal. There’s nothing here to heal.”

  “And what happens when you heal another?”

  “I…” She inhaled, trying to stop her anger rising again. What did happen? “I see the light inside them—their soul, their innate magic perhaps, and their memories, the world as they see it.”

  “I said show me. Not tell me.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Try.”

  Jeren glared at him but kept her peace. Try? Too right she’d try. If he’d just for once believe she could do anything of worth. Then she thought of Shan and her indignation punctured once more.

  “Very well,” she replied, a little more calmly. “If you explain why you didn’t become a Seer.”

  Indarin narrowed his eyes to slivers of light. Annoyance perhaps? Well, he deserved it. But much to her surprise he nodded. “Very well.”

  He settled opposite her and closed his eyes. Jeren followed suit, still now, attentive, waiting for his voice.

  “I had a choice when my sister, Fa’linar, died. I could remain a Seer or become Sh’istra’Phail. I am one of the few ever given that choice, for normally a Seer is a Seer and will not shed blood with their hands. But the blood our family needed…” He sighed and she wondered if he was watching her again, if that spectre of hatred was back. She didn’t dare look. “I suspect you know more of that than you think. I was allowed to become Sh’istra’Phail on the condition that I trained anyone with innate magic, that I test each warrior and if needs be show them how to control it. I also show those who do not realise they have magic in their blood what is truly there.”

  He fell silent, only the sound of his even breaths betraying he was still there.

  “All Fey’na are born with magic,” he told her.

  Jeren’s jaw dropped open and she couldn’t help but look at him. Indarin hung his head, unwilling or unable to meet her shocked gaze. The Fey’na hated and despised magic. How was that even possible if they carried that spark inside them?

  “It’s true.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “The Seers use it daily. The rest of the Fey’na not at all. But you know enough of magic, little True Blood Scion, to know that it will not be denied. So we learn to channel it, and shun the brothers and sisters who are chosen to wield it instead. Just as the rest of our people shun the Sh’istra’Phail who wield weapons and death. A divided race, you see? But each balances the other.”

  “How do you channel it?”

  “Through our bodies. We filter it out to every last pore of our skin, every follicle, every breath. And because the magic must have purpose, it makes us stronger, faster, increases our hearing and our sight. We exist in every part of our bodies, aware at all times of exactly what we are and our place in this world. The braids are bound for ritual purposes. They are bound to keep a part of us that is so easily stolen close and safe. And if they are taken, as your brother took Ha’ledren’s and tried to take Shan’s, it’s like losing a part of one’s soul, one’s mind and one’s heart all together.”

  “Then…if one of you is wounded?”

  “We lose a part of ourselves, unless the Seer can restore it.”

  “And if I heal one of you?”

  A smile lifted the corners of his mouth, not a pleasant smile. Bitter and marred by a certain cruelty she did not expect. “That would not be a thing acceptable to us. To any of us.”

  She froze, trying to drag another breath in. “To Shan?”

  “You healed Shan, I know. And in doing so gave of yourself to him. You are part of him now. It explains an awful lot, Jeren.” He looked away and it seemed as if he had finished. But after a moment’s pause, he continued, the words dragged out with reluctance, “And yet I cannot wish that you had not. I would not lose another member of my family. Now, close your eyes, seal that mouth of yours and let me teach you. That is why we are here. Not to discuss Shan.”

  She did as instructed, chafing under his instructions.

  “Release your magic, and think of your owl.”

  The owl . Jeren frowned, wondering where the owl had gone. She hadn’t seen her since their arrival in Sheni
nglas.

  “I didn’t say think about her,” said Indarin. “I said think of her. Seek her out with your mind. She’s your totem, is she not? Find her, become her.”

  As usual the magic flowed through her, a blissful touch which filled the world around her with light, with the awareness of light. She could sense Indarin and the light that flowed like a river within him. He was angry, sullen, and still somewhat dismissive of her abilities.

  Jeren ground her teeth and pressed on. Beyond him she sensed the encampment, and the Sh’istra’Phail, columns of fires, moving, dancing, fighting, laughing. Yes, they laughed, they loved, they lived, these cold and austere beings. She marvelled at the range of emotions that coloured their inner light.

  High overhead Jeren heard a cry and her attention shot upward, to the owl circling overhead, calling out to her. A smile lifted her lips and before she knew what was happening, her mind leaped into the air, breaking free of the bonds of earth effortlessly.

  The wind took her, feathers humming as they held her aloft, her eyes keen and determined, her body rolling and looping with the airwaves for the sheer joy of it. She spiralled above the camp. Jeren and the owl cried out, swooping over Indarin, circling her own still and pale form. She barely recognised herself anymore. Her body looked lean and hard, her face thinner than she had ever seen in her looking glass at home. The old Jeren had been whittled away to reveal something of a warrior.

  She circled again, swooping down on Indarin in the vain hope that she might startle him before climbing as high as possible. He never moved, but she thought she saw a smile curve his lips out of the corner of her eyes. Indarin, smile? Impossible.

  She climbed higher and higher, casting out across the undulating valleys, bulleting through the air until she reached the foothills of the mountains.

  Drifting on the air, she found the figures of Shan and Ylandra, already miles from home. She longed to linger, to follow him and make sure he saw her, that he knew she was with him. As if in answer to her thoughts, he looked up, scanning the sky, following her path with his beautiful eyes. She cried out, the hoot sounding plaintive and lost as it echoed through the mountains. Shan…her Shan, her mate, her love.