R. F. Long
The Wolf’s Mate
To Pat, always my hero.
Chapter One
As they crested the ridge Jeren drew in a sharp breath of wonder. The world spilled out beneath the mountain, not the lush green of the Holtlands she knew, or the snow plains in their endless grey and white. Not quite farmland, not quite wild, the pastures below were speckled with wildflowers, little dots of swaying colour, and the forests were knots of trees, rich tangles of shadows.
“This is what you meant,” she said, unable to tear her eyes off the vision below, “when you described your home? It’s beautiful, Shan. I had no idea.”
The warrior drew level with her, a towering presence, her only comfort. He entwined her fingers in his pale hand, the strength of his touch pouring into her.
“Yes. This is Sheninglas. You’re standing on the very mountain raised over the site where the gods battled in the dawning time. Our haven.”
“Ours?” she asked, as a darker mood too her suddenly. “Or your people’s?”
Shan smiled, squeezed her hand affectionately. He recognised her fear and comforted her with a touch alone. “Hopefully both.”
He didn’t sound terribly convinced though. As he led her down the narrow path over the high pass, he kept checking behind and ahead. Not for an ambush or pursuit. No one followed them, of that she was certain for Shan had allowed a relaxed place on their journey north. He had made every effort to help her to recover, to make sure she did not rupture the barely healed wound in her side. No, Shan wasn’t checking for assassins. Checking was habit, and every time he did it, she saw the shadow of pain in his eyes, of loss. Anala the wolf would never come running after them again.
Though weeks had passed, Shan never stopped hoping for the she-wolf’s return, her appearance. Anala was so familiar to him, such an expected sight on his journeys. She was a part of him, part of his heart, his totem animal and his beloved companion. And she was gone, killed by the same man who had wounded Jeren when they escaped from her brother. The same man the ghost of the wolf had in turn killed.
Overhead a cry broke the silence, piercing. A snowy owl swooped low, a flurry of white and dapple grey wings, breaking Jeren out of her thoughts. Her own totem animal.
“You should name her,” said Shan. “It’s only fair.”
“I don’t know what to call her.”
He shrugged. “Her name will come to you eventually. When she decides to tell you.”
“Then I wouldn’t really be naming her, would I?”
He laughed, a deep infectious laugh that rippled through her body and made her heart join in. “Always quick with an answer, little one. Come, it’s less than a day’s walk to the Spring Camp. We should be there by nightfall.”
Somewhere inside her the laugh failed. His sect’s camp had been their chosen destination ever since their escape. But they had no guarantee that his people would accept her. Given her birth, her heritage, her innate magic, it was unlikely in the extreme.
But where else could they go?
Jeren swallowed hard and fell into step beside him. Was it her imagination or did he hold her hand a little more tightly?
As the sun dipped lower in the western sky and the long shadows swallowed up the hollows in the land, so Shan’s mood grew darker, as sombre as the silent landscape.
“There are no birds,” Jeren remarked as they made their way through the edge of an area of woodland. Everything around them lay still and calm. Even the air was silent.
“Something is wrong. We should have found them by now.”
“Found them? You don’t know where they are?”
He let out a breath in a long hiss. “The Spring Camp moves while on patrol, Jeren. That is the nature of the Feyna world. But there is a traditional route and that does not vary unless something has happened to change it.”
He scrubbed his hand against his scalp through the fine braids of his white blond hair, scanning the deep shadows of the woods and the distant landscape beyond. His sight far exceeded her own, as did his hearing. She waited calmly, hoping his news would be better.
“We should make our own camp tonight,” he told her at last. “We’ll see what morning brings.”
She should have felt disappointed. The Bright Lord knew she could hear it in Shan’s voice, but if she was honest, all she felt was a sense of relief. It was a reprieve. As soon as they found the Feyna warriors, the explanations would have to begin and she would be forced to lay bare before Shan’s people who and what she was.
That was the moment she dreaded.
A noise in the night woke her. Only cold air met her when she rolled over. There was no sign of Shan, just a faint outline in the furs and blankets where he had lain. Beyond the shelter of the tent, the fire had dwindled away to a dull red glow and the chill in the night made her shiver.
“Shan?”
There was no answer. Her side ached as she sat up, reminding her to move slowly and with care lest the wound rip open again. Twice now she had done that and Shan had drilled into her the need to protect it.
“Shan?” she tried again.
A hand touched her shoulder, a cold hand like that of a corpse. Jeren turned with a cry and found herself looking into the face of Mirrow, the handsome young guard who had once been her friend and companion, who had died before she met Shan.
Terror killed the words in her tight throat. Mirrow raised a finger to his lips. “Shh…” His icy breath struck her face and her body stiffened in alarm. She stared at him.
It was him, in every detail. His thick brown hair, the little scar on his chin and the lopsided grin. She had found it endearing, a little rakish. Once, before she met Shan and truly knew the emotion, she had thought she might love Mirrow. A childish infatuation. She knew that now.
“You’re dead,” she told him in a tiny voice, though whether to remind herself or impart the truth to him, she couldn’t say.
His eyes glittered darkly. Not the coppery warmth she remembered but endless black, two windows on the void.
Jeren’s mouth opened but no sound came out. She heard thunder, fierce and loud, and only after a moment did she realise it was her own heart.
“Kiss me,” said Mirrow, leaning closer. “You always wanted to kiss me. It wasn’t fitting though. That’s over now. Kiss me.”
She jerked back, but his arms closed about her like iron, his touch so cold it drained what little warmth she had left. She needed help. She needed Shan.
“Ah,” came the sigh of realisation, of understanding. It flowed around her, chilled her. “Not this face. Not anymore. How fickle you mortals are. Something else then, something more like this.”
Transfixed, she watched Mirrow’s features flow and change, colour draining away, his close-cropped hair growing and twisting itself into braids. Tiny braids of silver-white.
Now Shan was holding her.
Jeren gazed into his eyes. The sorrow was gone. For the first time since she had known him there was no trace of pain. No shadow of the past. No scars left by her brother’s blight on his life. Dazed and confused, she struggled to focus. Her mind dragged its way sluggishly to accommodate this change. Had she been dreaming?
“Whatever were you thinking?” he asked.