Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

Slowly, I come to.

My first impression of the world around me is comfort. I wouldn’t have expected that. Though I don’t quite remember why, I expected to feel pain. I’m fairly sure that’s the last thing I felt before darkness claimed me—pain and more pain.

But just now, as I lie here with my eyes closed, I feel oddly relaxed. There’s still pain, of course, but it’s not unbearable. And my limbs seem to be resting easily, and the world smells pleasantly of dust, forest, a hint of lavender, and . . . sugar?

My stomach rumbles loud enough to push me back into full wakefulness. I crack my eyes open, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling of white plaster intricately molded into a pattern of garlands. A glamour? But I don’t feel any glamours around me.

I turn my head, wincing slightly at the ache that shoots through my shoulder. Biting my lip and blinking back a sudden prickling of tears, I take in more of the room around me. A proper lady’s room, with fine furnishings and heavy curtains hung from tall windows. It’s lovely but faded and partially overwhelmed by a lot of green growth. There’s a tree growing up through the floorboards and vines crawling up the walls. No wonder the room smells of forest.

It’s very strange . . .

The scent of sugar once more tantalizes my nostrils. I angle my head a little more and discover a bowl of what looks like oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar on a table beside the bed. It’s steaming, fresh. And it doesn’t smell like glamour either.

Did someone just bring it to me? Who?

I start to shift, intent on sitting up, but a gasp bursts from my lips and pain radiates through my shoulder. I reach up to gingerly touch the sore place, and my fingers meet soft linen fabric. I tuck my chin, looking down, and find a neat bandage, slightly bloodied but well wrapped.

I also realize that I’m wearing little else. My tunic is gone. My soft linen undershirt was cut and pulled away from the shoulder to allow room for the bandage. Exposing much of my bosom.

I grimace. Then, bracing myself against the pain, I sit up, trying not to put any weight on my left arm. The world spins around me, and I fear I might faint. But that would be a sorry waste of hot, fresh oatmeal. So I hold on, take deep breaths, and wait for the room to stop whirling.

When at last everything seems to have settled, I check the bandage again, lifting it just enough to glimpse the wound underneath. A row of neat stitches meets my gaze, surrounded by a lot of ugly bruising. No sign of infection, at least. Somebody did a good job taking care of this. An expert job, even.

But . . . who?

Once more I glance around the overgrown chamber, trying to discern some trace of my unseen helper. It’s a woman’s room. Could this be the house of another ward witch? But surely I would sense some magic then.

That oatmeal is going to go cold and lumpy soon.

I gingerly shift my legs over the edge of the bed, lean over the little table, and pull the bowl closer. I’m absolutely ravenous and would have polished that bowl clean in a matter of moments even without the delectable brown sugar to help it go down. It would be better with a little cream, perhaps, but I won’t be complaining to the chef!

As the warmth and sweetness runs down my throat and fills my hollow gut, my fuzzy mind starts to clarify. Images begin to play through my memory, a scene taking place on the edge of a riverside cliff.

Conrad.

And Dire.

Dire . . .

I close my eyes, setting my spoon down with a clatter. The last clear memory in my head is of the werewolf stalking toward me. Is it possible he is my unexpected helper? Is it possible he brought me to this place, bound my wound, and . . . and cooked me breakfast?

Somehow, I can’t make that idea fit into the proper grooves of my brain.

I finish eating, forcing down the last few bites. Less foggy headed than before, I sit back in the bed, lean against the headboard, and close my eyes. There’s something I must do, something I must try before I can even begin to figure out the mystery of this house and my unexpected helper.

Granny.

Those memories of the battle, of my fight with Conrad, of my wound, are all a bit jumbled, but one thing is crystal clear: the moment when I turned my arrow away from Dire and let it fly at the Monster Hunter instead.

I did it.

I resisted Granny’s compulsion. I fought her hold on me.

And I won.

What does it mean for my seven years of sworn service? Surely I can’t have broken that bargain so easily! Not that it was easy, exactly, but . . . but somehow I would have expected it to be much harder. Is there still a bargain in place now that I’ve managed to counter one of Granny’s commands?

I search inside myself, hunting in my head, in my heart, in my soul for traces of enchantment. But I’m no trained magic user. I don’t know how to sense such things. I’m probably just as cursed as I ever was.

For the moment, however, despite my wounded shoulder, I feel light. Airy.

Free.

I sleep again and wake, still sore, but better than I was before. Though I look hopefully, there’s no surprise meal waiting for me on the bedside table. Maybe my unseen helper has gone away and left me here? The room is full of shadows, but I can see daylight through the vine-choked windows.

Well, I’ll need to get up and try to figure out where I am eventually. Might as well be now.

Wincing and cursing under my breath, I ease out of the bed. I’m still wearing my trousers at least. My cut-open shirt falls around my waist, however, and I struggle to pull it back into place and adjust the ties across my bosom. Not enough of it is left for any real modesty, however. Grunting with frustration, I scan the room, searching for inspiration. An elegant dressing gown, only a little moth-eaten at the cuffs, lies draped over a nearby chair. Did someone leave it there for me? It’s a bright blue fabric embroidered in silver threads, much nicer than anything I would normally wear. I feel a little silly to put it on, if I’m honest. I’m not meant for such finery. Still, better than wandering about the place in a shirt that’s falling to pieces.

Getting the sleeve on my left arm and shoulder is a challenge, and I fight waves of nausea and pain. But I manage in the end and wrap the dressing gown tightly across my chest, securing the tasseled belt. Then, barefoot and tentative, I pad to the door.

The hall outside my chamber is silent. No sign of Dire or . . . or anyone else. Half tempted to call out his name, I swallow the impulse and instead step out into the passage and make my way to a staircase. The house is quite nice. Overgrown, yes, but undeniably grand, grander even than the beautiful townhouse I grew up in. Better furnished as well. Which is odd. Why would anyone abandon this property without taking at least some of these fine furnishings and fixtures with them?

Clutching the banister for support, I manage to get downstairs in one piece. I’m sweating and trembling. Gods, I must have lost a lot more blood than I realized to Conrad’s knife! Holding onto the newel, I pause and catch my breath, taking in the huge foyer and the enormous tree growing right up the center and through the roof. Is this place even structurally sound?

Once I’ve summoned my strength, I make my way to the large front door. The latch gives under the barest pressure, and the door swings open. Outside, forest meets my gaze—dense, dark forest. Not just any forest, either. This is Whispering Wood. I’d know it anywhere. The smell. The feel.

No one in their right mind would build a house like this right in the middle of the Wood.

“There’s a curse here,” I whisper, gripping the doorknob for support. “There’s a curse . . . somewhere . . .”

A shiver trails down my spine. I back inside and shut the door again. I’m not ready to go striding out into those trees without shoes, without weapons, without a plan. But what am I going to do exactly? I’ve resisted Granny’s command; how far will that resistance take me? Can I flee far enough to escape her reach? Or will the compulsion finally catch up to me, enslave me once again?

I circle the tree and make my way to the back of the house where a long hall extends both to my right and left. Straight across, however, is a door, which stands partially open. I step through and enter what must have once been a luxurious salon. It’s now sadly overgrown, more so than the bedroom upstairs, but I can still discern furnishings and carpeting through the greenery and scattered leaves on the floor. The windows are flung wide, and vines climb in over the sills in bounteous profusion, clambering up the walls. The overall impression should be one of ruin. But it’s not. It’s almost peaceful.

I turn to continue my exploration of the house, but something catches my eye: a little black hutch painted in an ornate pattern of birds and blossoms. On top of the hutch is a series of portrait miniatures. Even from across the room, I find myself oddly arrested by all those piercing, painted gazes.

Brow puckering, I draw closer. It’s the centermost image that intrigues me most—a young man, clean shaven, brown haired, wearing a posh jacket and lacy collar. His eyes are clear and bright, his face full and square and handsome, with a faint impression of stubbornness about the jaw.

I pick up the frame, angling it to catch more of the light coming in through the nearest window. If I didn’t know better I’d think . . . I’d think this was . . . No, I’m sure of it. It is Dire. Even without the beard and the shaggy gray hair, I couldn’t mistake those eyes. Though I’ve certainly never seen that expression in them. That confidence, that good humor, that certainty of purpose.

It’s strange—the only times I’ve seen him in his human form, there’s always been at least a trace of the wolf about him. Seeing him like this, fully human and uncursed, feels wrong somehow. Like something is missing. He’s just another handsome youth with a firm jaw. I’m not sure I even like the look of him this way.

Not that it matters whether I like the look of him or not.

I set the frame down, frowning. I’m about to turn away again but happen to see the next little frame beside his. I pick it up. This one is much smaller than the others, but the portrait inside is excellent, a perfect rendering of a gentle girl with chestnut hair and warm brown eyes, her pink mouth faintly tilted at one corner. She looks . . . familiar . . .

“You’re awake.”

I spin in place, wrenching my wounded shoulder rather painfully as I do so. Dire stands in the doorway. Not the young man of the portrait. No, this is the Dire I know. The wolf. The beast. The day has moved on past noon, and he is starting to show some traces of manhood again around the eyes and brow. But he is definitely not human.

I stare at him stupidly. My heart pounds, and I feel like a thief, caught red-handed. I’m afraid to put the portrait down for fear of drawing attention to it.

“I . . . you . . .” What should I say? Where even to begin? “Where are we?” I blurt at last.

Dire steps into the salon. He’s hunched over, his forelimbs supporting his huge torso. It’ll be hours yet before he’s walking on two feet again. His strange yellow eyes fix on me, and I struggle to discern any trace of humanity in them.

Then they turn slightly. He sees the miniature in my hand. I resist the urge to hide it behind my back. The werewolf lifts his gaze back to mine.

“This,” he says, his voice mostly a growl, “is my home.”

His home? Somehow, my mind doesn’t want to accept that idea, not while looking directly into that monstrous face. But then, I’ve always known that he did not begin life as a werewolf. He must have originated from somewhere.

Suddenly I want both to know and not to know more. A hundred questions brim on my tongue, but fear chokes them back down again. Fear of what, I can’t entirely say.

The silence between us has lasted too long. I need to say something. Anything.

“It’s . . . it’s nice,” I manage lamely.

Dire’s mouth is much too wolfish to allow for a smile, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “My grandfather built it. Old Edwyrd Phaendar, a humble merchant. Well . . . not so humble. He had Phaendar Hall styled as a proper gentleman’s abode. He was a man of ambition. As was his son, my father.”

The werewolf crosses the room, lumbering and huge in this once-elegant space. I want to shrink away as he draws near, but I stand my ground. He stops beside me and points to one of the little frames lining the topmost shelf of the hutch.

“Here he is. My grandfather.” The claw-tipped finger indicates the image of a graying, square-jawed man of certain years, still handsome if given to stoutness. His eyes are like Dire’s: wolfish. “And this is my father.” He points to the next portrait. This man is thinner and paler than his predecessor, but in his face, the wolfishness is even more prominent.

“And here is my mother.” The werewolf takes up a third portrait, this one of a lovely golden-haired young woman. He hands it to me.

I hold up the image, my gaze flicking from her face to the portrait of the young man in the center of the shelf. They are very alike, mother and son. He inherited his beauty from her. But not too much beauty, not so much that he seems delicate. The roughness and strength from his father’s side is there in him as well.

“She’s lovely,” I say at last.

“She was a Morcarin,” Dire says, as though that name should mean something to me. “Quite an old family with money and connections. My father was lucky to win her hand, and well he knew it. They both had great expectations of me.”

With those words, he turns to the portrait of the young man. Of himself. I watch his face as he gazes on that image of what once was. It’s difficult to read any human expression in those animal features, but his eyes . . . they reveal a great deal. Sadness. Longing. Regret. And anger. Always that same simmering, burning anger.

I don’t speak. I know there’s more coming. Maybe I ought to ask a question or two, try to open him up. But I can’t. I simply stand there, waiting.

“They sent me to a fine university in Wimborne City,” the werewolf says at last. The incongruity of those words coming from that awful mouth is almost laughable. Who could imagine such a beast attending university? “My people,” he continues, “may not have been proper gentility, but they had money. Plenty of money. Thus I was given the opportunity to rub elbows with the young lords- and ladies-to-be of the country, making those all-important connections. My family hoped I would marry into a title, but . . .”

I don’t have to guess where this is going. I open my fingers and hold up the small portrait of the brown-eyed girl. “What was her name?” I ask softly.

“I don’t remember.” The pain etched into his voice cuts me to the quick. “No more than I remember my own name. We lost our names when we lost our souls to Elorata Dorrel.”

Blood thunders in my temples as he speaks those terrible words. Am I surprised? I can’t say that I am. There’s always been a part of me that suspected . . . though even now, I’m not exactly sure what it is I suspect. It’s just that: suspicion.

I look down at the portrait. Suddenly I know why it feels familiar to me. Those eyes, those gentle brown eyes, are the same as those in the weredeer head mounted in Granny’s house.

My gut clenches. I’m suddenly woozy, and for a moment I fear I’ll drop in a faint. But no. I won’t faint. I won’t do anything so stupid as that. I’ll face the truth, face this harsh reality. And face my own small part in it as well.

“What did my grandmother do?”

Dire reaches out, and his claw-tipped fingers close around my hand. I feel the warmth of his strange touch for a half breath before he gently eases the portrait from my grasp. He looks down at the image. In that half-lit room, I could, for the moment at least, almost believe he was fully human.

“She was magically gifted,” he says. “She always was, from the time we were small. When word came that our local ward witch was seeking a new apprentice, it only made sense that she would be the one. She was so excited! I’ll never forget the day she told me. I was home from university at the time, and I . . .” He sighs, bows his head. “I tried to talk her out of it. My parents were already so much against the two of us. If she went on and became a witch, what then? We would never be allowed to marry.

“But she told me not to be selfish. If I got to travel and learn more about the world and its workings, why should I begrudge her this opportunity? A chance to expand herself, to learn, to grow. She wanted to be a ward witch herself one day, to take over the care of our small county. She was, in her humble way, ambitious.

“And I . . . fool that I was, I got angry. So I left. And I vowed I would forget her. I vowed I would do as my parents bade me, find a titled young lady who appreciated my fortune and would take me, merchant’s son though I was. I threw myself into my studies and into the gaiety and glitter of society in Wimborne. But I never forgot her . . .”

I know what’s coming. Not the details, exactly. But some instinct warns me where this story of his will lead. “What happened to her?” I ask. “What did . . . what did my . . .”

I can’t bring myself to say the words: What did my grandmother do to her?

A heavy sigh eases through Dire’s sharp teeth. He sets the girl’s portrait back down beside his own image before turning away and lumbering to the nearest window. There he pulls himself as upright as he can, gazing out at the forest. Is he done speaking to me? Is that all of the story he’s willing to share? Perhaps I should go, slip out the door, back up to my borrowed bedchamber. I take a step that direction.

Then, abruptly, he continues: “I came home again for the Feast of Glorandal. I always did, every year, to visit my family and see old friends. And this time, amid all the festivities and entertainments leading up to that night, I pretended I wasn’t interested in knowing what had happened to . . . to my friend. I didn’t see her anywhere, but I told myself this was simply because I wasn’t looking for her.

“Soon enough, however, whispers and rumors reached my ears. People said she had disappeared following the start of her apprenticeship. No one had seen or heard from her since.”

He shudders, the fur down his spine rising, his shoulders hunching. “I tried to dismiss these rumors. Tried to insist I didn’t care, that it had nothing to do with me. But when the Feast of Glorandal came and went without any sign of her . . . and when I found myself facing a return to Wimborne without so much as a glimpse of her face . . . I finally had enough.

“I set out into Whispering Wood. Alone. Without telling a soul where I had gone or why. Everyone in Virra County knows the path to the ward witch’s house, even if few dared walk it. I found the way and plunged recklessly ahead.

“But the path kept stretching longer and longer, far longer than it should have. Though I’d set out in early morning, the hours went by, and I seemed to make no progress. By sunset, I was still on the path, but hopelessly lost, deep in the forest.

“The attack came a few hours after sunset. A monster lunged at me from the side—a crazed, half-human, half-animal thing. I had brought no supplies, no weapons, nothing with which to defend myself. Taken unawares, I fled the path into the forest itself, but was soon run down, knocked from my feet, trampled, and torn. I doubt I put up much of a fight before I was knocked unconscious.

“I don’t know how long it was before I came to again. Days? Hours? Mere moments, maybe. But when I opened my eyes, I found myself in a rich room of green velvet and soft firelight. My aching body was wrapped in bandages. And bowing over me where I lay was . . . the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

Granny. I don’t need him to describe her. I know who it was he saw. Granny, wrapped in her glamours, young and breathtaking and full of dangerous allure. My gut twists. I’m not going to like where this story leads . . .

Dire, still standing at the window, closes his eyes and bows his head. I watch the fingers of his warped hand curl into a tight fist. “She talked me into staying.” His voice is heavy. Shamed. “Day after day. Week after week. I lost all track of time. I didn’t care. I believed myself in love and never once thought to question that feeling.”

The knot in my gut tightens still more. Exactly how far did this love take him? I don’t want to know. But I can guess. I’m not a fool.

I turn away from him, staring at those little miniatures on the hutch shelf. Staring into the face of that gray-eyed boy. Yes, he was just the kind of pretty fop my grandmother would fancy. And he gave in without a fight.

I wish I could tell him to stop talking, wish I could just turn and leave. But I’ve listened this far . . . I should probably hear the rest of his story.

“I lived in a dreamlike state,” he continues, “all thoughts of home and school and family and responsibility fled. I was like a pathetic lapdog, always trailing at my beautiful lady’s heels, adoring her without question, without reason. She dressed me in fine clothes and fed me fine foods, entertained me with sparkling conversation. Flattered me with stolen kisses and chance embraces. I have no idea how long this went on.

“Then, one day, while I was out strolling in the sun, gathering wildflowers to present to my ladylove . . . I glimpsed her. The deer-woman. The same monstrous half-animal creature that attacked me on my way through the forest. Only this time she was human. Or mostly human.

“The moment I saw her face, I remembered everything.”

He growls softly, turns from the window, and stalks across the room to grasp the back of a chair, claws digging into the upholstery and wood as though he would like to tear it to pieces. But he merely stands there, holding tight, bracing himself. His eyes flash in the shadows, meeting mine.

“I cannot begin to describe what happened next. The witch’s spell was broken, and I realized what had happened, what I had become. I fell at the deer-woman’s feet—at the feet of my . . . my sweet one. I held her hands and begged her to forgive me, begged her to tell me what had happened to her. She tried to speak, but the compulsions stopped her tongue.

“Elorata Dorrel found us like so. Her jealous shriek was sharp enough to stop my heart. I turned, and for the first time I saw her for what she was—the old crone, the ancient witch. It was only a flashing glimpse before her glamours closed back in again. But it was enough.

“Furious, I sprang up and charged her. I accused her of cursing my friend, of cursing me. And she . . .” The werewolf breaks off a moment, his grip on the chair tightening still more, his teeth flashing in a terrible snarl. “She didn’t deny any of it. Misery, she said—for that was the name she’d given the deer-woman—Misery was possessed of a tremendous magical gifting. A gifting to which Elorata had helped herself, taking that power as her own. The spell of assumption is a warping spell, and the result was the creature I now saw. The werebeast. Deprived of her power, committed to the ward witch’s service for ten years.

“She was Granny’s slave. Her monster.”

The sound that emerges from his throat is no longer a growl. It sounds much more like a sob. “I begged for her freedom,” he says, struggling to master his voice. “I wept, I pleaded. I abased myself before her. But the first price she demanded . . . it was too much. It was more than I could give. You see, in all the time I’d spent in her house, enjoying her gifts and kindnesses and caresses, I had not yet given her everything. I’d held back. Some small piece of me, you see, had known that it was all false, that it was all glamours and tricks. Some small piece of me didn’t want to give to her what I had intended for another.”

I know what he’s saying. He didn’t . . . He and my grandmother hadn’t . . . I can’t even bear to finish thinking the thought.

But the knowledge that it hadnot happened fills me with a sudden, unexpected burst of relief.

I blush, tuck my chin, fiddle with the tassels of my borrowed dressing gown, blood pounding in my ears.

“Elorata is not one to give up a good bargain, however,” Dire continues. “When she saw that her first demand would not be met, she had a second ready for the offering: my freedom in exchange for Misery’s. I would become her servant, not for ten years, but for twenty. I had no magic to offer her, after all, so twice the term of service was, as she said, only fair. But if I agreed, Misery would go free.

“Fool that I was, I leaped at the bargain. I convinced myself that I’d be able to break the curse somewhere along the way. Or that my love would break it for me. I simply could not fathom the reality of twenty years of service. And I grossly underestimated Elorata’s power.

“She cast her spell, and I . . . I became as you see me now. Ravenous. Horrible. Totally lost to my own bloodlusts and rage. The last thing I remember before the red haze came upon me was Elorata’s laughter—not the lovely, silvery laughter of the glamoured woman I’d known. This was a hag’s cackle, full of wickedness and triumph.

“I rushed off into the forest. I could not control the animal now that it was unleashed, and I gave myself over to every impulse of this new, exciting, terrifying nature. In that first rush of the curse, I did not even remember what I had once been.

“It was days later before my humanity slowly returned. The curse leveled out, finding a sort of equilibrium inside me. I woke naked and battle scarred on the forest floor. And when I pulled my head up, when I looked once more through bleary man’s eyes, I saw her. Misery. Dead.

“And Elorata Dorrel standing over her body.”

Dire looks my way again. The rage is gone from his face and much of the wolfishness as well. I see the man through the fur and fangs. A man plagued by sorrow, by guilt twenty years old and yet still fresh, still painful.

“I underestimated your grandmother,” he says softly. “I did not understand the terms of the bargain she made with me. She lifted her control on Misery, set her free . . . but she did not lift the curse. She never does. We all of us die as the monsters she made us. Free, yet never truly free.

“In the dawn light of that new day, Elorata smiled at me. Such a beautiful smile. Then she snapped her fingers. ‘Up, Dire,’ she said, speaking my new name for the first time. ‘I have much for you to do. Pick up this carcass and carry it back for me, there’s a good boy.’

“Thus began my twenty years as Granny Dorrel’s slave.”