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

by R. F. Long

  Jeren ducked the blade by instinct, pitching herself to the ground only to roll upright again.

  Ylandra bore down on her, pale hair streaming behind her, unbound. Her eyes blazed with a wild rage. She moved in total silence, the blades in her hands cutting the air with the faintest whistle.

  A cry went up from the camp as someone noticed the fight but Jeren didn’t dare look away. If anything distracted her, she would be dead.

  “Ylandra? Where’s Shan?” she gasped and had to retreat as the Sect Mother came at her again.

  “They have him,” Ylandra hissed, her teeth clenching over the words. “All because of you. And they’ll keep him unless I give you up. You belong with them, serpent-born bitch!”

  Jeren darted to the left as Ylandra struck, sliding past the knife. She twisted, grabbed Ylandra’s arm, and slammed it against the rock face. Ylandra’s fingers convulsed but the blade didn’t drop. But the blade was visible for just an instant before its sister sliced into Jeren’s upper arm and Ylandra twisted out of the way.

  Shan’s knife. Ylandra had Shan’s sect knife.

  “Where did you get that?” Jeren growled through the pain. Staggering back, she pulled the sword from its sheath across her back. Knives to a sword made for an unbalanced match, but Ylandra was both quicker and stronger, and better trained. And what else could she do? Continue this unarmed and she was dead.

  “It’s your fault!” Ylandra circled her, crouching low, waiting for an opening, and Jeren matched her pace, both hands on the hilt of Felan’s sword. There was no unease now. The sword knew its purpose and so did her magic. They were working together.

  The clash of metal rang out as they joined again, and the evening’s stillness fell beneath them.

  Noise erupted behind Jeren, voices, outrage.

  “Ylandra, what are you doing?” Indarin called out, angry and dismayed.

  “Someone help Jeren!” Vertigern shouted. “Someone has to stop this.”

  Too dangerous , Jeren wanted to tell him, wondering why he didn’t see it, or try himself. If he did, she prayed someone would restrain him before he got them both killed. Ylandra danced on the edge of the drop off the side of the mountain. And so did she.

  The attack came with such fury it drove Jeren back towards the higher rocks, past the camp to the canyon mouth. The Sect Mother sorely outmatched her. Blood already slicked Jeren’s arm, threatening her grip.

  Sh’istra’Phail moved like ghosts around them, recognising the danger of interference. Jeren saw the truth of it. Distract Ylandra, and they might be able to save her life. Distract her and Ylandra would be on her in seconds and she would die.

  Jeren ducked, parried and dodged the silver blurs made by the two knives. They moved too quickly for her to follow, or for her clumsy blows to get past. All she could hope for was to parry. Parry and pray. She couldn’t avoid such fluid and deadly grace for long and Ylandra knew it too. Jeren saw it in the smile that curved the corner of her mouth, the triumph in waiting.

  “The Enchassa that took Shan said she’d have you too,” Ylandra sneered. “Said she had told you as much.”

  Jeren’s heart spasmed, as if it had just stopped beating. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. The Enchassa had Shan! Just as she had promised when she laid down her curse.

  Jeren stumbled and Ylandra’s surprise kick caught her knee, felling her in a heap of pain and humiliation.

  “Ylandra!” Ariah cried out in a voice that should have shaken the mountain. “Stop this, Sect Mother. Jeren is here to see her destiny and embrace the life of Sh’istra’Phail.”

  Ylandra’s upper lip drew back, baring her sharp white teeth. “You? Sh’istra’Phail? You don’t deserve the honour, filthy True Blood. You don’t deserve to be one of us, you serpent-born bitch. You don’t deserve him.”

  A slender figure clad in shining armour slammed into Ylandra’s side. Elayne caught the Sect Mother completely by surprise and before Jeren knew what was happening had grappled her to the ground. Torvin and Vertigern grabbed Jeren, pulling her back from the fray and then Indarin was there too, trying to help restrain the furious Ylandra. Like a woman having a fit, she twisted and convulsed, determined to tear herself free, even if she had to rip off her own limbs.

  “Let me go!” Ylandra screamed. “They want her. Just her. Let them have her. She’s nothing but a True Blood whore. She isn’t his mate or Sh’istra’Phail, just a mortal with stolen magic and a curse. She beguiled him, bewitched him. It’s her fault the Enchassa took Shan. It’s her fault he’s nothing but food for the Fell’na now!”

  “You left him there?” Jeren exclaimed, incredulous. “You left Shan there as a prisoner?”

  A hush fell over them all as Ylandra stilled, her eyes blazing silver fire at Jeren. Pure hatred spilled from them and behind it Jeren saw the shadows of self-loathing. Ylandra knew what she had done.

  “You left him there,” Jeren whispered. It was no longer a question.

  The calm words ignited Ylandra’s rage again and those holding her were caught by surprise. Ylandra tore herself free, knocking Indarin back. Only Elayne clung on grimly, still trying to bring the maddened warrior down. Ylandra snarled and thrust Shan’s knife through a chink in the bodyguard’s armour. Elayne stiffened, shock painting itself over her face.

  With a heartless grin, Ylandra twisted the blade, digging it even deeper, and Elayne dropped like a stone, gasping. Without pause, Ylandra drove straight at Jeren.

  The sword felt cold in her hands. The world slowed around her as a million thoughts rushed through her head. Thoughts of Shan, enslaved by the Fell, of Elayne’s face, and Vertigern’s as he tore across the space between them, stricken, bloodless, just like Shan’s had been at the moment of Anala’s death, a mirror of the event.

  Even with all the people gathered around her, all of them were far too slow to hope to save her. A presence touched her mind, a brief moment of contact, of kinship. Jeren opened her mouth and screamed a single word.

  “Kiah!”

  Her owl plummeted from above, talons tearing through the Sect Mother’s face even as Ylandra threw up her arms to protect herself. She slashed at the bird with her remaining knife, but the owl was unrelenting, as enraged as the woman it battled. It drove down on her until the other Sh’istra’Phail could finally secure her ragged and bloody form.

  The white-hilted Sect Knife lay on the grass between them. Kiah, the snowy owl, took wing again, circling the group as if to ensure that danger was past before flying back to Jeren and landing on the rocks beside her head, a bristling ball of feathers and fury, far from placated.

  Warily, Jeren held out her arm, hoping her sleeve would be thick enough to act like a falconer’s glove. But the owl perched there gently enough, the great talons never harming her.

  Ariah, still clad in her white gown, stepped between them, bent and retrieved the Sect Knife, the symbol of Ylandra’s responsibility and authority. She turned it over in her hands. Jeren’s blood smeared her pale fingers.

  “Ylandra, you have attacked one of our own and spilled blood on holy ground. What is the meaning of this?” It was the way she said it that chilled the most, without a trace of anger in her voice, but only confused disappointment.

  Tears stung Jeren’s eyes. Indarin took her other arm, steadying her. It as only then she realised she was swaying on her feet. Her teacher studied her with the same wary gaze as the owl.

  “Jeren of River Holt isn’t one of us,” Ylandra was sobbing now. “She doesn’t deserve to be.”

  “But she is,” Ariah continued, patient as the mountain they stood on. “And she is most deserving, both of being Sh’istra’Phail and of being Shan’s mate. You cannot force a change in what must be, Ylandra.”

  “No.” Ylandra wept, broken and empty. “She isn’t, she doesn’t deserve to be. She isn’t,” she repeated. “She doesn’t deserve to be.” On and on, her voice went, sinking into incoherence.

  “Take her back to the camp,” Ariah commanded
, her brow furrowed with concern. “I’ll see what I can do for her in a moment.” Her guards obeyed, Seer and Sh’istra’Phail edging warily around the raving captive. Ariah turned her back on Ylandra now and her demeanour softened when she beheld Jeren. “Are you hurt?” When Jeren shook her head, Ariah smiled in genuine relief. “But your arm…”

  “It’s just a scratch.”

  “A little more than that,” Indarin said gruffly. “It needs attention.”

  But another voice broke through the air. Shaken and afraid, Vertigern’s voice lost the veneer of cultured eloquence Jeren had grown to expect.

  “Please, you have to help her. Please!” He cradled Elayne against him, his handsome features gaunt as he stared into her pale face. Her armoured side glistened red over the polished metal.

  Jeren lifted her arm and Kiah took wing, crying out reproachfully. She hurried to them, her own aches and pains forgotten.

  “Call a Seer,” Ariah said.

  But Fethan was already by her side. He folded his arms before him. “The Seers are trying to help Ylandra. Besides, we do not heal Holters.”

  Jeren’s jaw sagged and she snapped her gaze around to Ariah in disbelief.

  “Is this your final word?” Ariah’s voice was thin as a blade and just as dangerous.

  Fethan narrowed his eyes in defiance. “Unless Ariah will command me to break my sacred vow to heal my people.”

  “But not to the exclusion of others, Fethan.”

  His cold gaze passed over the Holters. “I see no one here in need of my aid.”

  “I shall not forget this, Seer,” Ariah replied in her dangerously calm voice. “None of this. She was your choice as Sect Mother, wasn’t she?”

  They were going to do nothing, Jeren realised. Nothing to help Elayne, because she was a human, a Holter and not worthy of the help of a Seer. Something shook deep inside her. The castes of the Fey’na operated autonomously, and all Ariah could offer was guidance.

  But this was wrong. Worse. This was evil.

  “Please,” Vertigern whispered, smoothing his hand over Elayne’s brow, trying to hold her with him by force of will alone. But the chance was slipping away, and so was Elayne.

  “Oh gods, get out of my way,” Jeren snapped and pushed through to them. She dropped to her knees. “How do I get this metal shell off? I need to see the damage.”

  Indarin helped her, his hands gentle. Where Torvin had got to Jeren had no idea and Vertigern was beside himself with grief, next to useless.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Indarin asked warily.

  “I know healing. It’s one thing I am good at.”

  “I mean you’re about to put on a display of magic that few Sh’istra’Phail will be able to accept. You’re as good as announcing yourself as a Seer.”

  “A Seer?” She looked up towards the nonchalant Fethan and scowled. Had he hoped for something like this? Something to put her in just such a position? “I wouldn’t be a Seer if it was my only hope for survival. And maybe I’m not meant to be a Sh’istra’Phail after all. Not if it costs anyone’s life.”

  They managed to loosen the piece of plate above the wound, enough to give Jeren access. When her finger brushed the ragged flesh, Elayne cried out.

  “Shh,” Jeren murmured, focusing her power within her mind. “It’ll be fine, Elayne. He’s here with you, holding you. Can’t you feel him? Think of that, only of that.” And then she spoke directly to Vertigern, her voice firm with command. “You hold her tight, because this is going to hurt her a lot. Indarin, you may have to help him. She’s strong. And that means she’s going to recover. Believe that, Vertigern and then make up for all this lost time.”

  Jeren closed her eyes, and bent her will to the injured woman. Light filled Elayne, light fired by love and made all the brighter by lying in the arms of the man she loved, who loved her in return. It would help, more than help. It would do most of the work for her. Steeling herself for the painful backlash that would surely follow, Jeren released her magic into Elayne.

  To tell the truth, Jeren had healed far worse wounds, but now, on top of everything that had happened and knowing Shan might be lost forever—No, don’t think that! Don’t ever think that!—when she opened her eyes to see Vertigern’s lips brush Elayne’s, to see the warrior woman’s eyelashes flutter against the top of her cheeks and her skin flush, it seemed like the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. And one of the best.

  Her side ached from the ghost of Elayne’s wound, as if her own wound had returned to haunt her. Her head swam and the world blurred in and out of focus.

  “Here,” Indarin told her. “This will help.”

  Her hands closed around her sword. Her sword. Gods, how strange that sounded. She hated the thing, yet she would never let it go. Her breath calmed as she touched it and the pain faded, an advantage of the way it drained off her magic.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  To her surprise, Indarin ruffled her hair and then helped her to her feet. “I don’t believe we are wanted here at this moment.” He smiled down at Vertigern and Elayne, who perhaps could no longer see anyone but each other.

  “I don’t think anyone is,” Jeren agreed. “Not right now.”

  As they walked back to the small encampment, Jeren couldn’t resist a glance back. The couple still nestled against each other, talking quietly now.

  “Now I know why she disliked me, I suppose.”

  “I believe so.”

  “I wonder how long she has loved Vertigern?”

  “You have done a good thing today, Jeren. A brave and mighty thing. They will marry now?”

  Jeren rolled her stiff shoulders and felt her stomach sink at the question. “I don’t know. Vertigern is supposed to marry as his Holt requires. I was to be his match. Now… I think they will select another noble for him.”

  “Not Elayne?” Indarin seemed confused. The inner workings of Holtlands politics were alien to him. Shan had understood. It marked a difference in the brothers she had not realised before.

  “Sadly, no. Her family…” It felt like such and awful thing to say. The woman had saved her life, had almost died for her. “Her family are minor nobles at best, like faithful servants to Grey Holt. The Scions of Tyr would never allow it. Vertigern must marry well for his family’s sake.”

  She didn’t look back again. The thought of seeing the two of them steal even a brief moment of freedom was too much. She had dreamed of such freedom. Freedom to do as she would, to love as she would. Now Shan was a prisoner, at best. There was every chance that he was no more than a thrall.

  The thought jabbed deep into her mind. No, it couldn’t be. But if the Enchassa had him captive, how long could he resist?

  Or maybe…maybe he was already dead?

  And all of a sudden Jeren’s resolve turned adamant. She would go to the Vision Rock and have this finished one way or another. And then she would go in search of Shan. No matter what it took.

  ***

  Ylandra, bound and gagged, still managed to hiss and spit like an angry cat when Jeren appeared. The Seers surrounding her managed to keep her subdued, but still Jeren gave them all a wide berth. She didn’t want to see Fethan ever again.

  “You look angry.” Ariah’s liquid voice made her start.

  “I…I’d like to finish this, Ariah, to go to the Vision Rock. To get it over and done with.”

  Ariah raised an eyebrow. Not what she had hoped to hear perhaps. No deference, no recognition of a sacred space. She still held the Sect Knife in her long fingers, turning it over thoughtfully, like it reminded her of something, something she would rather not remember. “Though it may not show you what you want?”

  Indarin hovered at Jeren’s side, an attentive teacher, a concerned friend.

  “Is she ready, Indarin?” Ariah asked.

  “Yes.”

  Nothing more than that. Jeren hesitated. Yes. Just one word. It meant more than anything else he could have said.

/>   “Where did you find Ylandra, Shaman?”

  “She ran into the Spring Camp raving and calling for Jeren. We welcomed her and she wept to see us, embraced us, seemed herself. I brought her here, Ariah. This is my fault.”

  Ariah chuckled, a sound that made her sound ancient and knowing. “Nonsense, Indarin. Ylandra brought this on herself.” Then she paused. “But you cared for her all these years, my friend.”

  He stiffened. His secret, Jeren realised. How long had he kept it?

  “It doesn’t matter now,” he replied, though the tightness in his voice gave his words the lie. “Though I was Shaman, she never saw me. Her ambition blinded her. I was a tool for her use. Nothing more. I will watch her now, if you will, see what I can discover. Then, Jeren and I will leave at first light. Your time to conduct her vision grows short, my Lady.”

  “We’ll leave?” Jeren gasped. “Where?”

  “North, and then we’ll follow any landmarks or directions I can glean from Ylandra. You and I are going in search of Shan, Jeren. And we will get him back.”

  ***

  The tunnel narrowed again. Leithen groaned and forced his way through. Stone scraped against Shan’s shoulders as he pushed onwards. The light ahead was a tantalising gleam, hanging there, just out of reach.

  “It’s not far now.” Devyn’s head popped up again, blocking out some of the light.

  “You can do it,” said Doria, still hugging Pern and Jerryl to her side. “Keep going.”

  Leithen snorted something like a laugh from behind Shan. “I guess a couple of weeks of starvation has some advantages then.”

  “It is good to look on the brighter side of things,” Shan agreed and struggled on.

  Devyn had led them out of the Fell caverns, through the narrow tunnels he had followed to find them. That he had done so still grated on Shan’s sense of protection. His instructions had been clear enough. The way the boy had ignored them to come back reminded Shan more of Jeren than he would like to say. It was the type of thing she would do. Especially for those she loved. Devyn wanted his family.

  Shan pushed himself through the final gap, his clothes and skin tearing against the rocks, and fell at the Holters’ feet.