Heart of the Wolf

by Saranne Dawson

  They rode higher and higher into the mountains. The snow came thicker and faster. She could barely see beyond the horse's nose, but Daken and his men clearly knew the way, and their mounts remained sure-footed.

  "How is your father's health?" he asked after a time. "We have heard rumors that he is ill."

  "Yes, he is,” she said. How could he have "heard rumors," when his people supposedly had no contact with the outside world? Was it sorcery—or had the rumors reached him through the Menoans?

  "So that is why he sent you—his heir?"

  "Yes.”

  “And he sent you to persuade us to join forces against the Menoans and Turveans, who plan to make war against you.”

  Where was he getting his information? It was

  possible that the Kassid had spies like everyone else—but if they all looked like these men, how could they possibly disguise themselves?

  Then she realized he was expecting a response. "I would prefer to discuss my mission later."

  He chuckled. "So the future empress has already learned something of statecraft. Very well. We will wait."

  Her fever was returning. She began to shiver again, and her head throbbed. She rubbed her temples absently. He reached for a flask tied to the saddle, opened it and handed it to her.

  "Drink some more of this. It won’t be warm now, but it will still help.”

  She took it and drank more of the bitter brew. Once again, it helped almost immediately—but not as much as before. And she began to feel dizzy again, just as they rounded a sharp bend in the trail and were struck full force by a howling wind.

  Daken tightened his grip on her and leaned close to her ear. "You’re in no danger. We’ll be out of the wind soon. Try to sleep, Jocelyn.”

  The trail now had become a constant spiral upwards, with walls of black rock to one side and a swirling nothingness to the other. She had to gasp for breath, causing her chest to hurt still more. Whether she actually did fall asleep, or simply passed out, she didn’t know. Neither did she know how much time had elapsed. But she came to suddenly with a painful snap of her head as he brought the horse to a halt. She could see nothing—not even the other men. Only swirling snow and blackness.

  "Why have we stopped?" she asked, trying to keep the fear from her voice.

  "I had hoped to show you our home from here,” he said. “But it’s difficult to see through the snow." He pointed up ahead.

  "Can you see the lights?”

  She blinked and peered through the snow and finally did see some lights. Two lights shone with particular brightness; she thought they must be bonfires. But how could they keep bonfires going in this weather?

  "The brightest lights mark the entrance," he told her as he urged the horse onward again.

  "How can you have bonfires in this snow?" She asked incredulously.

  "They're not bonfires," he replied. “You will see soon enough. We will be there within the hour.”

  But she didn’t see them again. By the time the party reached the huge, flaming cauldrons at the end of the bridge, Jocelyn had slipped once more into oblivion.

  Chapter Three

  Jocelyn returned to consciousness suddenly—or so it seemed to her. From a place of total nothingness, she opened her eyes to bright sunlight pouring in through sparkling glass windows whose edges glowed with jewel-toned panes.

  Vague memories flitted through her mind: gentle hands, voices speaking soothingly in an alien tongue, cool cloths bathing her heated skin. Then another, more disturbing memory: a large, shadowy presence and a much deeper voice, also speaking softly in that strange language.

  She blinked a few times in the sunlight, then forced the memories away as she confronted the reality—she was a prisoner here, a prisoner of the Kassid and their leader, Daken. Her last clear memory of him was sitting astride his horse, leaning

  against that solid wall of his chest as he pointed out the bonfires. Or had he told her they weren’t bonfires?

  With all this running through her mind, Jocelyn was very slow to notice her surroundings—then slower still to assimilate what she saw. She had believed that the Kassid were a primitive people, despite the tales of their sorcery, but what she now saw was luxury beyond even the palace.

  Glass windows, such as existed in only the wealthiest of Ertrian homes were decorated with colored panes along the edges. Richly decorated draperies covered the windows. Ornately carved wood in a mellow, golden shade she’d never seen before. Thick rugs on the floor. Unlit crystal wall sconces whose bases had the gleam of pure gold.

  The bed in which she lay was large and comfortable, if a bit hard, and the cover was made of that same strange, knitted wool Daken and his men had worn. She withdrew a hand from beneath the covers and touched it. What wonderful wool—if indeed it was wool. She'd never seen its like before.

  She stared at all of this for a long time, first in disbelief and finally with a sense of wonder. Not even the palace—surely the grandest place in the world—was so splendid.

  She recalled the story she’d been told that the Kassid possessed great wealth, and remembered as well Daken’s comment that there was nothing the Kassid could possibly want from Ertria or its enemies.

  Then she belatedly recalled her pains and the

  fever. She took a deep breath and felt no pain knife through her chest. She wiggled her damaged feet, then pushed back the covers to examine them. The cuts and bruises were mostly gone. Only a few faint marks were left to remind her of her ordeal.

  She was just beginning to wonder how long she had been here when yet another thought struck her. The room was comfortably warm, even though the fire had burned down to a few glowing embers. For a moment, she thought she might still have a fever. Perhaps all of this was a hallucination. But no, she was fine; that warmth was coming from the room itself, not from a fevered body.

  Surely it should be cold! It had been snowing when they arrived. But in this room there was nothing of the dampness she associated with colder weather.

  Moving slowly and carefully, she got out of bed. Her body was somewhat stiff, but there was no real pain. She stood there uncertainly for a moment, curling her toes into the soft rug, wondering again where they got that luxurious wool. Then she realized that she could feel a draft of warm air against one side of her face.

  She turned in that direction and saw only a wooden grate covering an opening in the wall. The warmth was coming from there, and she soon saw similar grates in the other walls.

  From a sense of wonder, Jocelyn moved quickly to uneasiness. How could such a thing be? How could all of this exist up here in these dark, wild mountains?

  Sorcery! Despite the warmth, she shivered. How

  could she possibly have forgotten what the Kassid truly were?

  She started toward the windows, her mind already considering how she could escape from this luxurious prison. But then she stopped and whirled about as she heard the door open behind her.

  A very tall, dark-haired woman stood there, dressed simply but richly in a long dress with wide, intricately embroidered sleeves. She wasn’t beautiful, but Jocelyn thought her very striking. The woman smiled at her.

  "You are well,” she said with obvious pleasure. "That is good. Forgive my poor speaking. I have only a little Ertrian. I am Tassa.”

  Jocelyn wondered if she were Daken’s wife. They appeared to be about the same age, and the woman clearly wasn't a servant. She returned the smile.

  "Yes, I am well. Was it you who nursed me back to health?”

  "I and others as well. We have healers. You are hungry?”

  "Yes—very hungry.”

  "Then I will bring food,” Tassa said with another smile and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  When she had gone, Jocelyn noticed a dark green robe lying across a chair. It wasn’t hers, but she assumed it had been left for her and put it on, once again admiring the fineness of the wool. The robe was both too large and too long, but she sashed it as bes
t she could, then picked up the hem and started once again toward the windows.

  She peered out, then shrank away with a gasp as

  a wave of dizziness overtook her. Then she stepped back to the window again, this time better prepared for the sight before her.

  Far, far below was a huge courtyard, at least several times as large as the main courtyard at the palace. It looked as though a market was in progress; hundreds of people were milling about in the bright sunshine.

  Beyond the courtyard was a wall, perhaps about the height of the outer wall of the palace, but dwarfed here by the height of the building in which she stood. And beyond that were the ever-present mountains—except that now she was at eye level with some of the peaks, though a few snowcapped ones were taller.

  The size of the courtyard and the height from which she was seeing it suggested a building of truly gigantic proportions, although she could see nothing of it from the window. And all of it—the wall, the courtyard, and the outer portions of the deepset windows—was made of that strange black stone.

  I have touched the sky, she thought, recalling the Balek name for the Dark Mountains. And for a moment, she lost her fear in the sense of awe over this wondrous place that swept over her.

  Then she heard the door open and turned, expecting to see the woman, Tassa. But it was Daken who entered the room, balancing a large silver tray easily on one big hand.

  He smiled at her—that smile that brought such gentleness to his harsh features and even softened

  the impact of those ice-blue eyes. She stayed where she was, resisting the urge to clutch the robe more tightly around her.

  She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but he seemed even bigger in the confines of the room. He was wearing loose gray trousers and a matching shirt with flowing sleeves, and over it a vest in that strange, supple, knitted wool. The effect was elegant, despite the solemn colors and lack of decoration—far more elegant, she thought, than the overdone clothes worn by men at court.

  He gestured to the food, still smiling. "Come and eat. You will need to regain your strength if you are to practice statecraft.”

  His tone was light and teasing, making it difficult for her to take offense. She lifted the hem of the robe and crossed the room, conscious the entire time only of him, although she kept her eyes on the tray of food.

  When she had seated herself at the small table, he poured them both a dark brew from an ornate silver pot.

  “This may be too strong for you. I can add some water.”

  She tasted it and immediately began to cough. He chuckled softly. "I thought as much.” He added some water from a matching silver pitcher.

  “Wh .. what is it?” she gasped.

  "We call it taru. It's brewed from certain roots, then aged in vats."

  “It’s wine?” she asked doubtfully. It hadn't really tasted like wine.

  "No—and it will not make you drunk. We have some very good wines, but you should not drink them yet.”

  Watered down, taru tasted quite good—and so did the food. The spices were strange, and she didn’t recognize half of what she ate, but she devoured it while he contented himself with a cup of the taru.

  She was about to compliment his cook when it occurred to her that she hadn’t yet seen any evidence of servants. Perhaps Tassa had prepared it herself.

  "Tassa is your wife?" she inquired politely.

  He shook his head. "She is my sister. My wife died many years ago.”

  Jocelyn then recalled her father’s having mentioned that Daken had lost a son. "Do you have any children?”

  "A daughter," he replied. "She wants very much to meet you, and I doubt that I’ll be able to keep her away much longer."

  “How old is she?" Jocelyn couldn’t begin to guess his age, although she was certain that he must be younger than her father. Despite the gray hair, he looked like a man in the prime of his life.

  “Sixteen,” he replied with a smile. "And already insisting that she's a woman."

  Jocelyn nodded with a smile of her own. "Yes, I recall saying much the same thing to my father at that age. It seems to me that fathers never want their daughters to grow up, although they’re forever urging their sons to do so."

  He chuckled—a low, pleasant sound. "I think you’re right, although in your case, your father must have been forced to accept your growing up, since you are his heir.”

  "But your daughter. . She stopped, remembering those stories about their form of government.

  "My daughter will inherit nothing—except what I have to give her, of course. Our leaders are elected.”

  So it was true—in part, at least. "Who elects them?"

  "Everyone who has reached the age of maturity. Then the leader appoints a council of advisors.”

  "Does ‘everyone’ include women?"

  He nodded, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Of course.”

  "Then a woman could be elected leader?” she challenged.

  "That hasn’t happened yet, but I think it will one day. I have two women among my advisors.”

  "And how long have you been leader?”

  “For fifteen years—since I was twenty-six."

  “Twenty-six?” She stared at him. “But how is it that you were elected at such a young age?" She wouldn’t dare choose even an advisor so young.

  "Durka, who was leader before me, had nominated me. That is the custom. I myself have already nominated a successor. But Durka died young, in an accident."

  "I find it hard to believe that your people would accept such a young leader."

  "But you are very young—surely younger than I was then. And you may well become empress at a very young age.”

  "Yes, but no one elects me.” Nor would they, she thought. Ertrians would never elect a woman to rule them. She was intrigued by his suggestion that such a thing could happen here.

  "Nevertheless, they will accept you,” he replied.

  "Because they have no choice," she stated bitterly before she could stop herself.

  Their eyes met, and she thought she saw understanding there. But how could he understand? That momentary warmth she felt for him drained away. She could not afford such feelings for this man.

  "Am I a prisoner here?” she asked him, forcing herself to hold his gaze steadily.

  “No, Jocelyn—you are a guest. We did not kill your Guards and I did nothing more than to bring you to your destination."

  She believed him. She knew that she might change her mind later, but at this moment, looking into those pale eyes, she believed he spoke the truth.

  "Thank you for saving my life," she said simply.

  He nodded. “I regret that we didn’t arrive quickly enough to save the others as well."

  She finished her meal in silence as he drank another cup of the taru. His honesty was encouraging her to ask the other questions most on her mind: Were they truly sorcerers? Could they transform themselves into wolves? But she remained silent out of fear of what the answers might be.

  By the time she had finished the meal, she felt herself growing tired and frowned at the cup she had just drained. Could it have been drugged? But he’d drunk two cups with no obvious effects.

  He stood up. "You should rest now. You were very ill, Jocelyn—perhaps more than you realize. It will be some time before you regain your strength.”

  “How, long have I been here?” she asked, realizing that she should have asked that question before.

  “For five days. For the first two days, the healers were not certain they could save you. I think you must have been ill even before the attack on the camp.”

  “Five days?” She stared up at him aghast, then nodded in response to his implied question.

  “Yes I hadn’t been feeling well. We rode for several days in the rain, and air in these mountains seemed to disagree with us.”

  He nodded “When our people returned here many years ago from Ertria, they also found it difficult to breathe for a time. That is another reason y
ou are tired now.”

  “But why is that? Tanner, our guide, told me that he thinks there's less air up here—but that can’t be true.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps it is true. We don’t really know.”

  He reached down to assist her to her feet, then held her hand for a moment. It felt rough and warm against her soft skin. Their eyes met and held for a moment before she pulled her hand free and backed away, confused by the heat generated within her by that brief contact.

  Then she felt warmth of a different sort as she moved closer to that grate in the wall. She gestured to it, grateful for something to distract her.

  “Where does that warm air come from?”

  He glanced at it briefly, then smiled at her—a knowing smile, she thought.

  “Magic.” he pronounced, then turned to the door. “We will talk more later, Jocelyn. Rest now—and know that you are safe here.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. She stared from the door to the grate and back to the door again, shivering despite the warmth and his words. Safe? How could she be safe in the home of sorcerers?

  But the days passed and Jocelyn and Daken didn't talk. She usually saw him at some time during each day, but on those occasions he confined himself to small talk, always in the presence of his sister and daughter.

  Jocelyn, however, didn’t force the issue. First of all, even though she was much better, she still tended to tire easily. And whether by accident or design, Daken tended to appear at the times when she was feeling her worst.

  And secondly, she was slowly gaining information about the Kassid from the two women—especially Daken’s daughter, Rina. Sometimes, though, it seemed that she was learning more through what was not being said.