“Trevyn! Are you all right?” he shouted, and gave the youth no chance to answer. “By thunder, is that Meg?” He peered at the grimy girl. “Your father’s been bellowing for you since yesterday, lass. Trev, you young rascal, what have you been up to? Rescuing fair maidens?”
Meg snorted; she had never felt less fair. Trevyn scarcely heard. “Wolves,” he muttered, and felt horror ripple through him, the horror of a nightmare not his own, the horror of a shadow not understood. Wolf and stag were both in Aene, he had been taught, like hawk and hare, water and fire, and all of these part of the old order that only man sometimes leaves—so how could the wolves turn against him? They had attacked him like brigands.… Pale and sweating, he closed his eyes, laid his head on Arundel’s neck. He felt Meg’s thin arms around his shoulders, trying to steady him, but he knew he would slip away.… He heard a cry from Rafe, then nothing more.
He awoke hours later to find himself tucked into a monstrous sickbed. At Rafe’s stronghold, he knew, because he saw that same lord seated beside him. “Have you nothing better to do?” he mumbled.
Rafe smiled. “How do you feel?”
Burns stung him, seemingly to the bone, even before he moved. He hoisted himself painfully. “Confounded. Not long ago I hated snow. Now I could go out and roll in the stuff. I take it you’ve cauterized the wounds.”
“Ay, we’ve had to brand you, lad.” Rafe pulled back the sheet, reached into a bucket at his feet, and piled mounds of snow on Trevyn’s legs and shoulders. “You’ve slept for five hours or so. Could you manage more?”
“Hardly!” Trevyn supported himself gingerly on one elbow. “I don’t remember much. Did I make a fool of myself?”
“Nay, indeed! You were in a dead faint—lay like a felled tree. By my troth, I don’t think I could have done it otherwise.”
Startled, Trevyn glanced up to see tears sliding silently down Rafe’s rugged face. He reached out to touch the older man’s hand.
“Rafe, you must be spent. Get some rest. I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“I’m sorry, Trev,” said Rafe wretchedly. “But how am I to feel? Meg told us about those wolves, and they must have been mad, rabid. What if—” Rafe gulped to a stop.
“They were not rabid.”
“If you die,” Rafe blurted, “it will mean more than the loss of one that I love.”
“They were not rabid. You are worrying for nothing, Rafe. I am not likely to die from a few bites.” Trevyn felt the touch of a shadow and lay back wearily. Still, he spoke with assurance. Rafe studied him, mindful of the visionary powers of the Lauerocs.
“You are not just saying that. You are quite certain.”
“Of course.” But Trevyn did not tell Rafe why he knew he would take no harm from his wounds. The big wolf, it seemed, had plans that they should meet again. Unpleasant as the thought was, it afforded some solace. Luck, in the form of Meg, had seen him through the first encounter. And the next time he would somehow be better prepared.
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About the Author
Nancy Springer has passed the fifty-book milestone with novels for adults, young adults, and children, in genres including mythic fantasy, contemporary fiction, magic realism, horror, and mystery—although she did not realize she wrote mystery until she won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America two years in succession. Born in Montclair, New Jersey, Springer moved with her family to Gettysburg, of Civil War fame, when she was thirteen. She spent the next forty-six years in Pennsylvania, raising two children (Jonathan and Nora), writing, horseback riding, fishing, and bird-watching. In 2007 she surprised her friends and herself by moving with her second husband to an isolated area of the Florida Panhandle where the bird-watching is spectacular, and where, when fishing, she occasionally catches an alligator.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © © 1977, 1980 by Nancy Springer
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ISBN 978-1-4976-3253-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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