Irina and the White Wolf

by Leah Swann

  Leah Swann’s short stories and poems have appeared in Review of Australian Fiction 2012, Best Australian Stories 2011, Award Winning Australian Writing 2011, page seventeen, Australian Country Style, Masthead and Reflecting on Melbourne. Her first book, Bearings, a collection of short stories and a novella, was shortlisted for the Dobbie Award in 2012, while Book I of the Ragnor Trilogy, Irina the Wolf Queen, was published in the same year to widespread acclaim. Leah lives with her family in Melbourne.

  Praise for Irina the Wolf Queen

  ‘[A] charming children’s fantasy . . . a winning combination, handled with an imaginative focus that should keep younger readers immersed.’

  Cameron Woodhead, The Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Leah Swann has mastered the magical art of story writing for children. Right from beginning to end the story grips you with a wealth and richness of character, adventure and atmosphere. It plucks at our emotions and fears, but never tips into mere sentimentality . . .’

  Melbourne primary school teacher, Ali Staley

  For Maya, Rose, Kaspar, Micah, Mia and Louis

  IRINA

  and the

  White Wolf

  BOOK II of the RAGNOR TRILOGY

  Leah

  Swann

  Sydney

  CONTENTS

  Map: The Island of Ragnor

  Title page

  Chapter One: The King’s Dream

  Chapter Two: The Seer

  Chapter Three: The Rats Return

  Chapter Four: A Forest Burial

  Chapter Five: Dreaming of the White Wolf

  Chapter Six: An Unexpected Visit

  Chapter Seven: The Gift

  Chapter Eight: A Dark and Secret Ceremony

  Chapter Nine: The Forest of Mazes

  Chapter Ten: The Intruder

  Chapter Eleven: The Pillar

  Chapter Twelve: Chesca

  Chapter Thirteen: The Enchanted Bracelets

  Chapter Fourteen: The Crossing

  Chapter Fifteen: Andor’s Visit

  Chapter Sixteen: Blast of the Sea

  Chapter Seventeen: The Skylings

  Chapter Eighteen: The Double Voice

  Chapter Nineteen: Hinuna

  Chapter Twenty: The Fight

  Chapter Twenty-One: Last Words

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Remembering the Way of Wolves

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Ferryman

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Ravens’ Call

  Chapter Twenty-Five: King Matoskah

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Chesca’s Confession

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Long Live King Andor!

  Acknowledgments

  Other books

  Copyright information

  Chapter One

  The King’s Dream

  Restless dreams woke King Harmon early on the morning of midwinter. Men on horseback with blue-feathered helmets were galloping towards him. Were they going to attack his kingdom? The dream slipped away as dreams do, vanishing into the otherworld. The King rubbed his eyes, sat up and reached for some water. It had frozen solid in his cup. He rang the bell for his manservant Jibade to come and light the fire.

  Beside him, Queen Chloe stirred. Harmon gazed down at his wife’s pale and beautiful face. He couldn’t help noticing the sadness at the corners of her mouth even as she slept. He knew why. Their daughter Irina’s return had been all too brief; now she had left them again and was back in the icy forest, looking after her wolves, trying to undo Vilmos’s spell. The magician’s evil magic had left the wolves bloated and vicious. They had forgotten they once ran in packs. They had forgotten how to hunt. Irina had been tending them for two long winters now, and still Harmon and Chloe had received no word from her.

  The King got out of bed and dressed hastily in a linen shirt and his favourite blue woollen tunic. His third daughter, Julene, had woven the cloth, embroidering a red sword across the chest. Harmon liked having this symbol close to his heart – the mighty sword of the Archangel was a steady reminder not to get lost in a sense of his own greatness.

  There was a knock at the door and Jibade entered. The young manservant knelt before the fireplace, stacking dried twigs and logs. Harmon strode to the bedroom window, but the glass was frosty and scant daylight penetrated the royal bedchamber. He lifted the wrought-iron latch and thrust the window open, causing a flurry of powdery snow to fall to the ground far below. Freezing air gushed in. Why did he feel so uneasy? Ragnor was stable. He could rely on King Niklas, whose alliance with Harmon was as strong as ever. Together, they could overcome a threat from the Narrowlands – if it came to war. Most importantly of all, Vilmos was gone.

  I’m worried about Irina, of course, Harmon thought. I have honoured her request to be left alone with her beloved wolves, but her mother is anxious. Irina’s duty is here, with her true family. Although the wolves were like brothers and sisters to his firstborn daughter, to King Harmon they were dangerous and savage beasts. It was a tragedy that Vilmos had poisoned their natures for his own wicked purposes, but the damage was done and, in Harmon’s opinion, the sick wolves were better off dead.

  Outside, as far as the eye could see, the winter landscape shimmered in the delicate morning sunlight. Feathers of snow had fallen all night, blanketing the kingdom of Ragnor in a cold shroud. In all directions, everything lay white and still.

  Irina is taking too long, Harmon thought. Enough! It would not be hard to find her. The wolves’ den could not be more than half a day’s journey from Ragnor Castle. It is time to bring my daughter home.

  Deep in the snowy forest, sheltering in a frozen cave, Princess Irina sat huddled with her precious wolves. The animals were in a worse condition than she’d first thought. As Vilmos’s dark magic had left them, other powers had disappeared too. Their natural will for survival had all but gone. They no longer howled at the moon. Few remembered how to hunt. None played. Only a couple had the strength to dig out new dens and there was not enough space in the cave for them all.

  During the first bitter winter in the forest, dozens of wolves died. Irina wept as she and her wolf-brother, Durrell, covered their bodies with earth and snow and uttered blessings. When spring arrived, the wolves’ conditions improved, but this second winter had taken its toll yet again, and more had died. Irina had done everything she could, but for some reason the powerful herbs her stepmother, Octavia, had given her and the spells she’d learned from the wise-woman, Raizel, worked on some animals, but not on others.

  Perhaps I’m not strong enough to overcome Vilmos’s damage, after all, Irina thought sadly. She glanced across at a silver wolf who lay watching her from the corner of the cave. Until now, Shula had been one of the stronger ones, but it seemed that even she was giving up.

  ‘Come now, beautiful,’ Irina said, kneeling beside the silver wolf. The animal twitched nervously. ‘You can trust me.’ Irina placed her hands gently on Shula’s back. She felt the knotted muscles under the animal’s pelt, and beneath, the bony ribcage. ‘Poor, poor one,’ Irina crooned in a soft growl from the back of her throat, keeping her hands on Shula’s back until she felt the wolf’s muscles begin to relax.

  That night, Irina slept beside the beautiful silver wolf, one arm thrown over Shula’s bony body, trying to keep her alive and warm till morning. When dawn eventually came, Irina was elated. The wolf had survived another night. ‘You are not ready to die yet, Shula,’ she whispered. ‘Your fur is bright and shining. You still have life left in you.’

  Throughout her first spring in the forest, Irina had hoped for pups, but every time she looked for signs among the scrawny, wild-eyed females, she came away disappointed.

  ‘Why don’t you find a mate?’ Irina said now, stroking the head of anothe
r wolf who lay exhausted on the cold ground. Irina was worried that the females were barren. No more pups meant no more wolves. Could this really be the end?

  ‘No,’ Irina said firmly. ‘This is not the end.’

  By now, Irina was forced to rely on her sylvan, a beautiful white bird called Amicus, to find food for her, just as he’d done when she was a child living with her wolf-mother, Sheka. One of the best places to scavenge was in the storehouses of Ragnor Castle, and most days Amicus would fly south in the morning, returning with morsels of bread and nuts and fruit in the afternoon. Irina knew she could get a message to her father to send servants with supplies, but she didn’t want visitors from Ragnor Castle. If they reported on how little progress she had made healing the sick wolves, her father would surely order her home. Worse, King Harmon would insist the animals be put to death.

  Every once in a while, a traveller passing through the forest would be astounded to come across the wild wolf-girl surrounded by her pack of feral animals. Some people would hurry away, frightened by what they’d seen – but none escaped Irina’s sharp eyes and ears. ‘My wolves mean you no harm!’ she would call. ‘Come and warm yourself by the fire.’ She missed the companionship of humans; animals alone were no longer enough.

  Those travellers who were brave would be rewarded with a spoonful of barley broth, a crackling fire, sometimes even a story. Later, when they returned to their own villages, they would tell an extraordinary tale of a fur-clad girl who had power over the biggest wolves they had ever seen; a girl with coarse hair and clever fingers who could see in the dark. And in time they would learn they had met a girl of royal blood, the one known throughout Ragnor as Irina the Wolf Queen.

  Chapter Two

  The Seer

  At the other end of the island from Irina’s wolf cave, a strange gang of rats carried the evil magician Vilmos’s body north. They travelled at a steady pace, never once stopping to eat or rest. When they passed farms and villages, people came out of their huts and houses, staring at the bizarre spectacle and muttering blessings to protect themselves. At other times, the rats carried Vilmos through lonely forests and wide, grassy plains; the birds and the beasts their only witnesses.

  While out foraging for food early one morning, Amicus caught sight of them. Curious, he swooped and hovered above the slow-moving mass, even brushing his wingtips over Vilmos’s ashen face. Was the magician really dead? His eyes were closed; his mouth a cruel, unmoving line; an arrow still jutted from his side. He must be dead. Yet why did the rats march relentlessly forward? Where were they taking him?

  When Amicus flew north again the next day to check on the rats’ progress, they had vanished. The sylvan scanned the forests and the plains and eventually came to a vast lake. He circled the steaming, foul-smelling body of water, his sharp eyes checking the banks, searching for the rats and their sinister cargo. How could this be? Surely the rats couldn’t swim?

  One cold afternoon, an old man appeared at the edge of Irina’s camp. He was stooped and skinny; his shabby leather boots were scuffed and stained, as was the hem of his faded cloak. His wiry beard bristled with tiny twigs and leaves and his long grey hair was matted around his face. On his back he carried a small leather pack.

  Durrell growled at the stranger, his hackles rising instinctively.

  ‘Quiet,’ Irina said and turned to the old man. ‘Come in, my friend, warm yourself. I’ve built a fire.’

  ‘I’d be grateful to you,’ the old man wheezed. He spoke with a strange accent. ‘Just keep that savage beast away from me.’

  At this, Durrell’s lip curled and his eyes blazed.

  ‘He’s no beast,’ the wolf-girl said. ‘He’s one of the great wolves of Ragnor, and my brother.’

  ‘Hmph,’ sniffed the old man.

  ‘Where are you from, sir? Judging by your clothes it seems you’ve been travelling a long time.’

  ‘You are observant, child.’

  In truth, Irina was confused. The old man’s cloak, while faded, was made from finely embroidered silk. Here and there, Irina noticed a few brighter stitches of yellow or red or blue. Someone skilled did that needlework, she thought. And though the old man’s boots were scuffed and worn, they were fashioned of thick leather, no doubt made by an expert cobbler. Irina’s visitors usually wore wooden clogs or rough farmer’s boots.

  The old man seemed to sense her confusion. ‘My name is Baruch. I have trekked for many months from a distant land to the north-east.’ He spoke slowly. ‘Have you heard of the Crystal Sea? My home lay beyond the sea, in the Valley of Carmine Rock, where my people once dwelt in caves.’ He sighed. ‘Now it has been taken over by Yeti. After all this travel, I am, like you, down to my last rations.’

  How does he know I’m down to my last rations? Irina wondered. But she decided to be helpful. ‘Welcome. Here, please, let me take your pack.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Baruch. ‘You couldn’t possibly lift it. When I left my cave dwelling this pack was like a small house upon my shoulders.’

  Irina smiled and raised one eyebrow at the idea of this elderly man, so thin and frail, carrying such a burden.

  ‘You mock me,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘Oh no, sir, it’s just you said you’re down to your last rations and yet your pack looks empty.’

  ‘I carry other things, child: magic and heavy secrets.’

  With that, Baruch handed the leather pack to Irina, who winced and dropped it immediately onto the earthen floor. ‘It feels like you’ve got a ball of iron in there!’ she gasped.

  Baruch smiled and knelt down. ‘Nothing of the sort. Let me see what’s left. Hmm. A pumpkin from the vine that grows over my doorway. What a beauty.’ He produced a carving knife from a fold of his cloak, placed the enormous vegetable on the ground by the fire, and with a mighty blow cleaved it in two. ‘Half I will eat with you now and the other half I will eat with the one I seek – my oldest friend.’

  ‘I am very grateful, Baruch, to share this food with you,’ said Irina. ‘In return, please shelter the night in our cave; if you’re not afraid of my wolves, that is.’

  ‘At home, I have a beautiful white she-wolf called Gunda who feeds from my hand every morning. If that big one, the one you say isn’t a beast, is safe, then I am not afraid.’ He tossed chunks of chopped pumpkin into a pot of water suspended above the fire. Irina gazed at the golden cubes bobbing in the broth, her mouth already watering. She imagined the vegetable growing on the vine, swelling with summer’s warmth. From a leather pouch, Baruch withdrew a nutmeg, round and brown and fragrant, and grated it into the pot. Irina picked up a nutmeg shaving that had fallen to the floor and sniffed its rich, forgotten perfume. Spice! How long had it been since she’d eaten spiced food . . .

  When the soup was ready, the old man and the wolf-girl ate it together with some hard bread Irina had baked on the hot coals. The broth warmed Irina like a bowl of sunshine. She also felt nourished by the man’s gentle company. Baruch told her he’d once been an advisor to kings, but for the past twenty years he’d been meditating in a cave every morning and fighting Yeti every afternoon. Battle kept him strong and fit.

  ‘So, Princess Irina, how have you found your task thus far?’ he said.

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘Of course I know who you are. It’s no secret that Irina the Wolf Queen has been living in the forest with her charges.’ Baruch smiled. ‘It is an honour to meet you, child.’

  ‘You say it’s an honour, sir, and yet you keep calling me child. I’m almost a woman.’

  ‘Forgive an old man. When you were born my beard was already silver. Your skin is tender, and you haven’t known bloodshed.’

  ‘I’ve been in battle!’ Irina spluttered.

  Baruch smiled again. ‘Kneeling before a wolf and offering one’s neck is not the same as drawing a sword.’

  At this, Irina knew she was in the company of a true seer, a wise-man who could see into the future. ‘It isn’t by accident that you’re here,
is it, Master?’

  ‘No, Irina,’ Baruch replied. ‘There are grave things I must tell you.’

  Chapter Three

  The Rats Return

  The body of water Amicus saw from the sky was known as Lake Onkar. For hundreds of years, the lake’s shimmering beauty was the joy of the Narrowlands people who lived by its shores. The waters quenched their thirst, they swam in the lake in summer, skated on it in winter, and fished from it all year round. In its reflections the villagers saw silver dawns and burning sunsets, tall pines and delicate blossoms, ever-changing clouds and blue mountains, and these things made peaceful pictures in their hearts.

  But that was long ago.

  Lake Onkar’s beauty was a lie: it shone like a mirror on a summer’s day, but it yielded no life. The emerald frogs were gone, along with the lily pads and lotus flowers. No ducks glided over the lake’s glassy surface. No villagers fished for their supper. All that remained were oysters – too rubbery and sour to eat, but spongy enough to be irritated by the lake’s grit. And so they wove their pearls, layer after layer, in soft, irregular shapes.

  When the Narrowlanders drank the water from the lake, their thoughts grew dull. The village elders warned the youngsters that the lake was poisonous, and that the bitter waters were responsible for the death of the frogs, the lilies and the fish. The elders said a wicked sorcerer called Iniko lived beneath the lake in a basalt palace. His spells tainted Lake Onkar’s waters. But, one by one, the elders died, and the villagers forgot their wise advice. Most Narrowlanders thought the story of the wicked sorcerer beneath the lake was just a myth, while those who knew the truth were too scared of him and his master, the Venerated Dragon, to act.

  Their brains dulled and their bodies weakened, the Narrowlanders no longer sang or danced. They enjoyed cruel pastimes, such as watching roosters fight in courtyards. Their wealthy King and Queen drank Lake Onkar’s waters too and became lazy and gluttonous. King Matoskah ate fatted seals for breakfast while Queen Anona gorged on pineapples from distant lands. At night, they threw lavish banquets for their court; the King smug upon his throne, the Queen draped in rubies and other jewels stolen by her pirates.