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

by R. F. Long

  Shan straightened up. “Small legs need to rest occasionally, Sect Mother.”

  Devyn grumbled something behind him. For the sake of Ylandra’s honour, Shan pretended not to hear the exact words.

  “Is she always like that?” Devyn asked. “She treats you like a servant.”

  Shan smiled, but there was no joy in it. “Sadly, Devyn, I’m even less than that.”

  The next hour passed in agonising slowness as they struggled up the mountainside. The world fell still but for the scrape of foot on stone, the labouring of their breath. The sky overhead was empty of birds, and there was no sign of life amid the rocks and dust. Unease crept over Shan, but he kept going, following Ylandra and Devyn, trying to keep the children safe. Like little mountain goats, however, they didn’t seem to need him. But their pace slowed too. Not from tiredness or strain. From fear.

  Finally they crested a ridge and Devyn pointed into a hollow in the rockface. Hidden in the shadows, a fissure opened up, and along its side Shan could just make out a narrow tunnel leading down into the darkness.

  “How far down?” Shan whispered. No one raised their voice here. In this valley of shadow the world seemed to hold its breath for fear of being heard.

  But Devyn shook his head. They didn’t know. Shan stared at the opening. They must have been terrified when they fled this place, desperate, forcing themselves onwards.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” hissed Pern, wrapping his arms around his chest, shifting from one foot to the other. “We should go. You should come with us.”

  Ylandra glared at him and he fell silent, shrinking back behind Devyn.

  Whatever she had been about to say never made it past her lips. A sound broke through the silence, the rasp of skin on stone, followed by the faint scraping of something that sounded like metal. But it wasn’t. Shan froze, listening intently. Ten, fifteen…more. Very many more.

  The noise came from the fissure. Advancing forces, the Fell’na. And outside it, above him.

  “Run!” he yelled at the children, grabbing Devyn and throwing him back towards the other two. Ylandra’s weapons slid to her hands with a soft chink.

  “They’re above us!” she yelled, circling back.

  “They’re everywhere,” Shan snarled, knife and sword bare now. “Devyn, remember what I said.”

  The three children bolted. Shan couldn’t watch, couldn’t take his eyes off the approaching horde.

  Back to back with Ylandra, they faced their ancient foe, a sea of shadowy bodies, wave upon wave of malevolence. Creatures swarmed up from the hive and down from the mountainside, their eyes bright as stars, claws and talons sharp as blades.

  Shan muttered a prayer to the Bright God and his Lady, a prayer for three brave children that they would find safety. He couldn’t help them now, but maybe he could hold off the Fell’na for a little while.

  All he could do was pray. Pray and fight.

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

  Chapter Six

  A forced march meant something with Indarin in charge. If Jeren thought Shan had ever set a punishing pace, her impression was rudely shattered now. She stumbled along behind five other senior warriors. But it was Indarin who strode ahead, marching through the long grass as if to battle.

  Lara had insisted on accompanying her and for that at least Jeren was grateful. The Fey’na girl was the nearest thing she had to a friend now, and at least Lara tried to measure her pace to meet Jeren’s. Or if not meet it, to at least ease the strain for her.

  It didn’t work. If they fell too far behind, Indarin would start commenting again about how a Holter could never match a Fey’na, or what else could they expect from a pampered girl. The others didn’t laugh, but it was there in their eyes, the mockery. It was mortifying.

  Jeren pushed on, out of breath, her body aching and the scar tissue on her side emitting a pain which soon turned sharp and strained. It was one of the things Shan had told her to watch for as they travelled, as they trained. A warning sign that she was doing too much, that she was risking injury. But she couldn’t say anything.

  By late afternoon, she began to stumble over her own feet, her legs numb with agony.

  “Here.” Lara grabbed her arm, hauling her up as she almost tripped. “You can’t carry on like this. Let me call for a halt.”

  “No.” Jeren gritted her teeth and pushed forward again. “They’re going to confront my people, people I might have brought here in the first place. I need to be there.”

  “You’re hurting.”

  “So?” Indarin and the others were almost out of sight, farther down the hill. At least they couldn’t hear her. That was one single blessed relief. “Do you think they care? We have to catch up, Lara.”

  “I understand. But not so much that it will injure you. If you will but slow down, I will take the blame.”

  There was no choice, she knew that. Other than make a total fool out of herself.

  Lara released her and Jeren took a deep, calming breath. The wind lifted her hair and she felt her own heart beating, hard and fast against her ribs, and high above, she saw the owl, circling overhead.

  “No,” she sighed. “It’s my responsibility. Just give me a—”

  Indarin appeared again, anger clouding his face. “What is the delay? Are you holding us up again, Holter?”

  Jeren’s cheeks burned and her eyes started to sting. Stabbing pain lanced through her side and she tried to subdue it, tried to push it away so she could face him. But Lara answered first.

  “Jeren’s totem has found her, Indarin. Look!” She pointed up at the owl. “Perhaps it has a message for her?”

  He breathed in, slowly, as if fighting to control a temper. He looked at the owl as if in accusation. “Her name?” he asked Jeren.

  “I…I don’t know yet.”

  Was it disappointment in his face? She couldn’t tell for sure and he turned away from them before she could look more closely. “Then you aren’t ready for any message she might have. At least have the courtesy to name her first. Come quickly. The Holters are encamped just beyond the next rise and they’ve raised a flag of parlay. They are asking for you.”

  Fear washed cold and bitter through her body, despite the pain and exhaustion. She didn’t want to go down there, to face people from her home, for them to see her like this. Her hair was knotted with a band of leather at the back of her neck. She wore a simple tunic and trousers, all in pale grey and tan. How could a Lady of River Holt look like this? How could she face them and see their expressions?

  And yet how could she turn back? She smoothed her hand over her hair, pushing the errant strands back from her face. Indarin studied her, so she pulled her spine in straighter and lifted her chin. “Who leads them?”

  “A man of Grey Holt.”

  Grey Holt? Surprise made her eyes wide. “Not River Holt?”

  “The colours they fly are grey, not blue. I warrant this is a good thing.”

  “Let’s hope so.” But still. Image was everything with Holters, especially when the meeting was between Holts. “I need a little time. To prepare.”

  “Time?”

  “It’s a matter of honour, Indarin,” said Lara. “Can’t you see that?”

  He stiffened and then nodded. “Holt law, Holt traditions…do what you need to do. I will make sure you get that time, but do not take too long.”

  “My thanks.” Jeren inclined her head. Indarin backed off but she waited until he was gone again to breathe a sigh of relief. “Did he believe that?”

  Lara laughed softly. “It was most impressive, my Lady Holter.”

  “Good. Let’s hope we can fool my people too. I need to be a Lady Holter, Lara. Strong, in control of my situation, and beautiful. Dazzlingly beautiful.”

  “But you are beautiful.”

  Jeren smothered a laugh. “More so.”

  “Beautiful?” Her lips twisted. Only someone as hauntingly attractive as Lara could question the need for it. “Why
?”

  “It’s what they expect. It’s another form of honour, concerning the message I convey to them by my presence alone, the image I project from the moment they see me. I have a couple of things in my pack. Will you help?”

  Bewildered, Lara just nodded. “But…can they not see you for who you are?”

  Unbidden laughter bubbled up inside Jeren’s body. “Gods, that’s the last thing we would want.”

  Lara fussed over her in a manner more becoming a lady-in-waiting than a warrior. Golden bracelets hugged Jeren’s wrists like a prisoner’s cuffs. Her necklace and the cloak made of Anala’s fur—even though she had sworn never to wear them again—made for a pretty impressive if somewhat savage appearance, with the sapphires gleaming in the sunlight and the soft silver of the pelt on her shoulders. And she felt like herself for the first time in days, as if, by wearing it again, Anala was with her, guiding and protecting her as the wolf had done before.

  Jeren closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  “Ready?” Indarin’s voice was hushed, almost…reverent? She jerked her head back as she opened her eyes and took in his solemn face. “You do not have to do this, Jeren.”

  “But if I don’t, they can still accuse your people of kidnapping me or some such foolery and the next thing it’ll be all-out war.”

  All-out war . There, she had said it, the worry that had been grating on her mind since she had heard of Holters coming this way, of the Grey Holt banner they bore. She had once expected to marry Vertigern, though he was but a cousin of the Scion of Tyr. That had been her duty. And even though her brother had dissolved the engagement, Grey Holt could still feel a responsibility towards her. If River Holt would not come to her aid, poor captured Jeren, lost in the wilds with the wild things, then Grey Holt would. It was exactly the sort of reckless adventure a young minor lordling like Vertigern—so minor a relative of the Scion as to be removed from the duties and responsibilities of the court in Grey Holt—would jump at. Just the kind of melodramatic mission the Scions of Tyr would celebrate in song and verse. She recalled Gilliad’s disdain when her father first mentioned him.

  “He’s True Blood, but only just, his blood is so watered down. And the Scions of Tyr have ever been witless wonders, good only for tournaments in peacetime and to man the front line in war.”

  Tyr had been the warrior among the original True Blood. And his descendents carried on that tradition above all others. Every single one of them. War.

  She might even see it now. Just as the Fell Enchassa had said. Blood in Sheninglas. Spilled at her behest.

  No, there was no other way.

  “I’m ready. We’ll hold this parlay, let them see I am safe and happy, and then send them on their way home.”

  Indarin just nodded and turned away. What he thought of her show of strength she couldn’t say, but she hoped that somewhere he finally felt she was not a complete lackwit.

  Of course, if Shan had not brought her here, the Holters would never have followed.

  A cluster of pavilions squatted in the valley below, pale spots of colour amid the brilliant green of the grass dotted with jewel-coloured flowers. The central one, all grey and silver, was twice the size of the others and the Fey’na warriors stood outside, facing a surly bunch of Holt guards. The uniform the guards wore boasted the silver epaulettes of Grey Holt. As Jeren approached, they stiffened, eyeing her curiously—a bizarre cross between Fey’na, wilder and who knew what, she must have appeared to them—but when she stopped before them, glaring in her haughtiest manner, they bowed low.

  Beside her for just a moment, Indarin smirked. She only saw it from the corner of her eye, but she was sure.

  From inside she heard a voice. “I don’t like it, that’s all. No sign of their Sect Mother, nor of their queen. Nothing but warriors and those things in the mountains…”

  Indarin pulled back the gap in the canvas with undue noise and the voice stopped suddenly. Jeren nodded to him and he stepped inside like a bodyguard. She followed, head held high, Lady of River Holt.

  Vertigern surged to his feet, almost knocking over the low table before him in his haste. “Lady Jeren!”

  Maps and papers spilled over the rugs laid on the pavilion’s floor and his servants scurried to catch them, but Vertigern paid no attention at all. He was taller than she remembered, broader in the shoulders too, a man who had grown from the skinny boy she had only met a handful of times. His black hair hung to his shoulders, framing a strong and handsome face.

  A woman hovered nearby, clad in mail, with plain features that seemed to exaggerate his beauty. She kept her head bowed, her blonde hair falling over her face.

  “You look…” Vertigern began, stepping forward with his arms wide. When she didn’t move into his embrace he stopped, somewhat awkwardly, and let his arms fall to his side. “You look well.” Too late she recalled that she should have. He was to have been her husband. In fact, as far as he was concerned, he still expected to be.

  “So do you. What brings you to Sheninglas?” she asked as politely as she could. She knew the answer, of course, but preferred to hear it from his lips.

  “You do, of course.” He laughed, or at least began to. Nerves quickly stifled the sound. “But I see that our fears were unfounded. Gilliad claimed you were taken and brought here against your will.”

  “Rescued might be a more accurate word.”

  He almost flinched and his gaze slid to Indarin, standing to her right. “Is this…?”

  “No. Indarin is Shan’s brother. Shan is on a mission with the Sect Mother at the moment. Indarin is teaching me the ways of the Sh’istra’Phail. I suppose Gilliad has spread some wild tales.”

  “Some, indeed. Will you sit and talk?” He gestured towards the two chairs. “I came to help you, but it seems I am to bring news instead. River Holt needs you, Jeren. If I am not mistaken, all the Holts do. Elayne, will you fetch the papers? And perhaps request some refreshments for our guests.”

  The armoured woman nodded and moved away, surprisingly graceful for her frame and attire. But Jeren caught a hostile glare directed right at her before the woman vanished.

  When she had left the pavilion Jeren was surprised to see Vertigern smile.

  “Most people find her…somewhat unusual,” he said at last. “But I think she envies you your place with the Fey’na.”

  She did? Jeren was pretty sure she wouldn’t if she knew the reality of it. And the hostility had seemed sharper, far more personal. “Who is she?”

  “Elayne of Erendos. She’s my finest bodyguard.”

  Jeren raised her eyebrows. “Don’t your peers have anything to say about you being protected by a mere woman?”

  Vertigern laughed, a deep-throated and pleasant sound which reminded her too sharply of Shan. His laugh, when it came, made her heart tremble with unexpected familiarity.

  “Not twice, anyway.”

  And suddenly she found herself laughing too, as if some shell of tension which had built up around her cracked and fell to pieces.

  Before she could say another word, however, noise of a scuffle outside had their heads turning towards the door. A man pushed his way inside, another warrior born, bred and trained, his eyes blazing emerald in the dim light, deftly avoiding those guards who tried to stop him.

  Jeren surged to her feet, reaching to her waist for a knife, but Indarin was already there. Fluid as a shadow, he stepped between her and this attacker, his sect knife gleaming in his hands.

  The tent erupted in chaos—Vertigern yelling orders, the guards rushing forward, the Fey’na warriors armed and silent in her defence. But it was Lara who barrelled into the intruder, bringing him down in a tangle. She rose above him, swift and deadly, one hand pinning his to the ground, the other pinched on his throat. He choked out a cry. No knife, no weapon at all. Other than Lara herself.

  “Jeren, it’s me. Please.”

  She knew the voice at once.

  Torvin? Torvin Roh? How was this possible?

/>   “Let him go,” she gasped, pushing past Indarin’s guard. Lara looked up suspiciously, but released him. She stood slowly, never taking her eyes off him as he rose, brushing down his clothes and trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

  Jeren stared, her mouth hanging open. Torvin Roh, Mina’s nephew, the closest thing Jeren had to a childhood friend. They’d spent summers together—Jeren, Gilliad and Torvin—under Mina’s watchful eye.

  In a second she didn’t care about decorum or appearances, she didn’t give a damn what anyone thought—not the Holters nor the Sh’istra’Phail. She threw herself into Torvin’s arms and he held her close.

  “What are you doing here? What on earth are you doing here?” she babbled.

  “I signed with Vertigern when he announced he was coming here. But I’ve been in Grey Holt’s company for three years now. Aunt Mina didn’t tell you?”

  She might have. Jeren’s mind was too numb with shock to recall, but Mina’s name sent a shudder through her. “Torvin, about your aunt…”

  His face fell. Not into sorrow, but into a calmer, more sombre understanding of what she was trying to say. “I know. News reached us. But it’s worse than that, Jeren. Much worse.”

  “Worse? How?” She pulled herself free and faced Vertigern. “What has been going on?”

  The young lord lowered his gaze. Elayne was back at his side holding a roll of parchment tied with blue ribbon. An official River Holt decree. Vertigern took it without a glance to the bearer, though he hesitated as he pulled it from her hand. “My thanks, Elayne,” he murmured, before offering it to Jeren. His eyes did meet hers then. They were angry.

  Jeren took the scroll and unrolled it. An official decree all right and signed by her brother. It declared every member of the Roh clan traitors, outlawed them and bade his loyal subjects kill them on sight. Every member of the bloodline, it stipulated. He wanted to wipe them out.

  “This is monstrous.”

  “Yes. And he did it too.” Torvin’s voice sounded hollow, broken. He gazed into the distance as if that was the only way to keep his emotions in check. Jeren handed the scroll to Indarin. The Sh’istra’Phail studied it briefly, his features like a rock.