Heart of the Wolf

by Saranne Dawson

  Heart of the Wolf

  by

  Saranne Dawson

  Prologue

  The ancient cellars were cold and damp. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, but the smell wasn’t bad enough to drive her away—it was just the moldy, musty smell of great age.

  She wasn’t supposed to be down here, which was why she was. And now, having embarked upon this rebellion, she really had no choice but to see it through. What fun was there in deciding not to do something you’d been told you shouldn’t do? At least, so it seemed to her nine-year-old mind.

  But she was being careful, and she was proud of that. She’d stolen a huge ball of yam from one of the ladies, and as soon as she felt herself in danger of losing her way, she began to leave a trail of bright red behind her. When it ran out, she would go back; until then, she was safe enough.

  Most of the storerooms here were empty; she’d already passed through the ones that held the vast supplies of food and other goods needed to maintain the huge palace.

  Now she hurried past the big. barred gate to the old dungeon. When her father pretended to be angry with her—and it was always just pretense— he would proclaim that he was going to send her to the dungeon. He always spoke the word in a very deep tone. Although she knew he didn’t really mean it, the tone itself conveyed a message: this was the worst possible place in the whole palace.

  Her brother, who was four years older, claimed to have seen the dungeon once. He’d told her that there was old, dried blood on the walls and floors and horrible machinery that had once done unspeakable things to people. When he’d launched into a gruesome description of one of them, she’d told him that he had to be making it up. Their family had ruled this land for centuries—and none of them would ever have done such things.

  His tale did make her curious about the place, but since she couldn’t get into the dungeon she ignored it as she walked along, unraveling the yam and listening to her footsteps echoing loudly in the great silence. Fear was her companion, but it was the sort of companion that only added to the excitement.

  There were twists and turns and many small sets of stairs. It seemed that no two rooms were on exactly the same level. She stopped occasionally when one of the rooms contained something to explore: old rusted armor, crates that held tattered bits of cloth that must once have been clothing, broken bits of crockery. Her concept of time was rather inexact, but she knew they must have been here for many years. This part of the palace was very old; in fact, no one seemed to know exactly how old.

  She was nearing the end of the ball of yam and the limits of her curiosity as well when she descended yet another set of stairs—a long and twisted one this time—and came to a halt before a door.

  The door was interesting. Except for the dungeon, none of the other rooms had doors. And this one was very impressive. It was huge and carved in ornate fashion like the doors upstairs—perhaps even more elaborate. Even the wood itself looked different. The brass handle was so badly tarnished that it was nearly indistinguishable from the wood.

  Why, she wondered, would there be such a door down here? It seemed out of place in this bare stone cellar. She glanced at the small amount of yam remaining on her ball. She couldn’t go much farther, but she could at least try to see what lay beyond this door.

  With a slight shiver of anticipation, she grasped the handle and pulled at the door. She gave it a very hard tug, expecting that it would be difficult to open, but to her surprise, it opened smoothly, nearly toppling her in the process and causing her to drop her torch. She bent to retrieve the torch and at the same time peered into the room beyond.

  Her eyes widened in amazement. In the blackness beyond the door, she saw the unmistakable glitter of gold! Expelling her breath noisily, she walked into the room, holding the torch aloft as she stared at the walls.

  The entire room was made of black stone, and all four walls were covered with gleaming gold writing—strange symbols that were meaningless to her. She stood in the very center of the room and turned slowly, seeing each wall come to life as the torchlight struck it.

  Then she walked over to one wall and held the torch close to it. What strange stone. It was smooth and black—so black that it seemed to swallow the light. She reached out to touch it and saw that the symbols had been carved into the walls, then the spaces filled with gold.

  There was so much of the strange writing that she had stared at it for several minutes before she saw the finely drawn figures of dogs. She bent closer. No, not dogs. They didn’t quite look like dogs. Their heads and chests were bigger, and some of them had huge fangs.

  “Wolves!” she exclaimed, her voice reverberating in the empty room. Wolves! She shivered, frightened for the first time since she’d come down here.

  She'd seen drawings of wolves in her storybooks. They were huge, vicious creatures that inhabited the mountains far from the city—the most fearsome of all animals.

  But she reminded herself that these were only drawings—no more terrifying than the drawings in her books, even if they did seem to come to life as the torchlight passed over them.

  What a wonderful discovery this was! Far better than she’d hoped for. The strange black stone, the gold, that beautiful, graceful writing.. ..

  She walked around the room several times, her fear now completely forgotten. But then the torch began to flicker a bit, and she saw that she had precious little time left. There were fresh torches in the storerooms above, but she had a long trail of yam to follow before she would reach them.

  With a sigh of regret, she turned slowly once more to watch the light reflect off the gold, then began to gather in her yam until she had closed the door behind her.

  Only when she was once more back in the main storeroom did she realize that she should simply have followed her yam trail instead of gathering it in.

  But she was sure she could find the room again— and she was determined that it would become her secret place. Let her brother babble on about his old dungeon; she had found something far more interesting.

  Chapter One

  Jocelyn could barely contain the tidal wave of emotions that cascaded through her. Anger, guilt, pain, fear—they tumbled about wildly inside her. But none of them showed on her face. Since her brother’s death seven years ago, she had been well schooled. After all, she would be empress one day, and she could not afford the luxury of giving in to her emotions.

  But not yet, she protested silently as she walked across the soft rugs to the big, high bed. Please don't let it happen yet.

  She came to a stop beside her father’s bed. It wasn’t fair. She needed his wisdom, his quiet support. And she knew she could not hope to have it much longer.

  There was a sound behind her and she turned to see Hammad entering the room, his expression losing its customary gravity for a moment as he smiled at her. Hammad—her father’s most trusted friend and the commander of the Ertrian army. So many times lately, she'd found herself watching him closely for any signs that he too might be ill. He was her father’s age, and although he appeared to be strong and healthy, so too had her father until less than a year ago.

  She fought down the panic that seemed always to lurk within her these days, then turned to see her father’s eyelids flutter and finally open. His gaunt face creased in a welcoming smile as he looked from one to the other of them. Then he pushed himself up in the bed, settling himself against the pillows. Jocelyn made a slight movement to offer assistance, then subsided. He didn’t like to be cosseted, not even by his beloved daughter. There were so many things he could no longer do that it had become important to let him do what he could.

  His gray-green gaze held pain, as it always did when he refused the potions that eased the pain but clouded his m
ind. His voice, however, remained firm and clear.

  "Jocey,’’ he said, using the old nickname that he alone now used, “There is something you must do."

  “Of course," she assured him. “Anything you ask. You know that."

  He smiled. "Never commit yourself so freely, my dear. You must learn that now.”

  "But when it is you who asks. . .She protested, then stopped as he waved a thin hand in dismissal.

  “I forget that there is little left for me to teach you. Sometimes, I still see you as a little girl—not as a woman who will rule."

  Then he fixed her with a penetrating stare. "You must go to the Dark Mountains—to see the Kassid and speak to their leader, Daken.”

  Jocelyn was struck speechless. She stared at her father, thinking that his mind must be confused, after all. When his gaze continued to meet hers unwaveringly, she turned to Hammad. His expression was impassive, but he gave her a slight nod.

  "The Kassid?” she echoed. "But. . . but I thought. ..." Her voice trailed off in disbelief.

  “You thought they were only the stuff of legends," her father finished for her. “And they are. But they are also real. I have met Daken, their leader. It was he who returned your brother's body to me.”

  "But you said that he had been killed by wolves in Balek—not in the Dark Mountains.”

  "He was killed in the foothills of the Dark Mountains, between Balek and the lands of the Kassid. And it was they who found him and his party."

  So many questions were swirling through her mind. She grasped at one. "How can you be sure that the Kassid didn’t kill him?"

  "I am sure. Daken is an honorable man. He too once lost a son, and he understood my pain.”

  But that doesn't mean he didn’t kill him, she thought with an inner chill. How could her father trust such a man? All the old stories ran through her head, frightening her even more. She forced herself to concentrate on the issue at hand.

  "Why must I go to him?" she asked, certain that there must be some way out of this and wondering why he would even ask such a thing of her.

  “Because the Menoans and the Turveans intend to make war against us."

  ‘‘Both of them? But how could they? They hate each other. They’ve fought each other off and on for years.” More years than she had—more even than her father had.

  "No longer," Hammad said. "Arrat has married the daughter of the Turvean prince. They've formed an alliance against us."

  Jocelyn turned to stare at him, then turned back to her father. She knew what they must be thinking. If she’d agreed to marry Arrat.. . She couldn’t quite prevent a small shudder of disgust.

  "This is not your fault, Jocey. If you had wanted to marry him, I would have opposed it. He's not fit to rule Menoa, let alone the Ertrian Empire.

  "But he now rules Menoa, and to all intents and purposes, Turvea as well. Old Nadik of Turvea has been half out of his mind for years and his sons are wastrels who will gladly allow Arrat to rule as long as he keeps them in gold and women."

  "Are . . . are you certain they mean to attack us?" Jocelyn asked, still unable to assimilate all this.

  "Our spies tell us that Arrat is even now gathering an army in both lands." Hammad paused. "They can’t possibly be ready to attack before next spring, but I’m sure they'll make war then.”

  "And you think that the Kassid will help us?" she asked doubtfully.

  "I have hopes that they will,” her father replied.

  "Daken even warned me of such a possibility all those years ago."

  "How could he have known?" she asked, even as she thought about those old stories again.

  Her father shrugged slightly. “I don’t know how he knew. Perhaps it was only a guess on his part— or perhaps he saw the future."

  "Are the old legends about them true?” she asked, not even trying to hide her nervousness now.

  He shrugged again. "I don’t know what is true and what is merely legend. But I believe what I saw. None of us who met them that day had any doubts about their abilities as warriors."

  "But how could you know that? You didn’t fight against them.”

  "No, but we felt it. It is difficult to explain. Jocey, you must go—and go quickly, before the Dark Mountains become impassable. Winter comes very early there."

  "But surely someone else could go. Hammad?” She turned to him. Not only did she not want to go to the land of the Kassid, she also didn’t want to leave her father.

  But both men shook their heads, and her father said firmly, "Hammad must remain here, to try to turn an army of game-players into real warriors. And no one else would do in any event. You are my daughter and you will be empress. Daken would expect such a request to come from one of us.”

  "We must have their help, Jocelyn,” Hammad stated. "Except for myself and a few other senior commanders, none of our troops has ever seen bat- tie. As Maikel said, they are mere game-players with blunted swords and cushioned arrows.”

  "But who have the Kassid fought? Why do you think they’re any better prepared?”

  "They have fought no one for even longer than me—but they are warriors. And they are legendary.

  "You mean that there’s a chance that Arrat would call this off if he knew the Kassid were our allies?” Jocelyn asked, beginning now to see a possible way out of the horror of war.

  "We have that hope,” her father nodded.

  “Then I will leave tomorrow,” she responded, sounding far more sure than she felt.

  The sun was lowering in the western sky, sliding imperceptibly closer to the broad plains beyond the city. Jocelyn drew her cloak more tightly about her. Summer was nearly gone. Already, the topmost leaves on the trees in the park beyond the palace walls were brushed with gold and crimson, and the vast fields of grain that surrounded the city were ripe for harvesting.

  She was walking on the high, wide outer wall of the palace grounds—a small, slim figure silhouetted against the heavens, instantly recognizable to those in the palace courtyard to one side and the people in the park to the other. Her gleaming auburn hair streamed out behind her in the evening breeze. Through wide emerald eyes, she stared at the city below.

  She was alone now, but she'd walked here all her life. And before she could walk, she’d been carried by her father. He believed, as had his father before him, that it was important for the people to see their ruler.

  "It reassures them,’’ he’d said many times. "They need a person to embody the empire—not just a palace on a hill.”

  And now she walked alone—her mother gone fourteen years ago, her brother nearly eight, and her father no longer able to climb up here. She walked alone and thought alone, and was more conscious than ever of that aloneness.

  It was true that she was virtually always surrounded by people as she tended more and more to affairs of state. But that only increased her sense of isolation. Once, she’d been the darling of the court, loved and pampered by all. But with her brother's death and the certainty that her father had no intention of remarrying, all that had begun to change. And now with his illness and her assumption of most of his duties, the transformation was nearly complete. She was empress in all but name.

  This is what I wanted, she told herself. I wanted them to stop treating me like a child. I wanted them to stop seeing me as a future bearer of royal children to a husband selected for political reasons. I wanted to be an empress. I wanted it—and now I have it.

  But did she, really? If war came . .. She shivered and again drew the cloak about her. With each passing month, she’d become more comfortable in her role—dispensing justice, disbursing funds, planning new projects, doing all the things a ruler must do. And she believed that the court—even those who’d been openly skeptical of her ability to rule—were coming around. But wouldn’t that all change if war came? War was for men.

  And war could destroy so much, put an end to so many plans. In war, she knew that even the victor suffered greatly. And the vanquished. .. She couldn’t ev
en imagine that.

  She stared at the sprawling city below her. There was so much she wanted to do. Very slowly and carefully, she'd been gathering around her younger courtiers with new ideas and high ideals. It was a frustratingly slow process, since she couldn’t very well get rid of those who’d served her father. But in a few years, she knew, she could make a difference.

  When her father’s illness had forced her into affairs of state, Jocelyn had been shocked at the extent of corruption in this land she would one day rule. She’d known that corruption existed; she assumed it was the same everywhere. But she hadn’t expected it to have reached the point that some members of the court didn’t even try to hide it from her.

  How could her father have allowed this to happen—or to continue, since she assumed it had begun long before his rule?

  It was the one question above all that she wanted to ask him—and the one question she could not ask. He was a good man, and that was what frightened her most. Had there been a time when he too had wanted to put an end to it? Surely, there must have been. But if so, why hadn’t he succeeded?

  Ertria—and even Balek, a land conquered long ago by the Ertrians—were prosperous countries. Ertria had thriving seaports and fertile fields, and Balek had the great wealth of its mines that produced gold and silver and coal.

  Only within the past year had she begun to understand how all that wealth was concentrated in the hands of a few families. And those families schemed and cheated to avoid paying their taxes— taxes that could have been used to help the unfortunates who lived in squalor along the city’s edges and out in the countryside.

  And now war—or the possibility of war.