Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes
I watch her face closely, studying her reaction to my story. She’s such a stern creature, it’s difficult to read much in her expression. I can’t tell if she believes me. I can’t tell if she has any sympathy to offer me. I simply can’t tell.
I almost wonder if she hates me. And how could I blame her if she does? I hate myself sometimes. Hate myself for how easily I was duped, for how quickly I fell under Elorata’s spells. My foolishness, my arrogance, my ignorance of the ways of magic and bargains must seem idiotic to someone like Brielle.
I tilt my head, trying to catch her gaze. I wish she would look at me, would give me some sign of what she’s thinking. Why it matters so much, I can’t say. I only know it does.
Finally, the silence is too much to bear. I clear my throat and whisper, “Brielle?”
The sound of her name startles her. Her green eyes flash, catching the fading sunlight as they lock with mine. “Is there . . . is there any way to break your curse?” she asks.
I blink, surprised. Of all the reactions I might have anticipated, this one never crossed my mind. Does she . . . is it possible that she cares?
“Yes,” I admit, my voice deep and low, not quite a growl. “I’m no expert in these things, but from what I understand, a witch cannot cast a curse without some sort of countermeasure in place. But she can, of course, make that countermeasure as difficult as she likes.”
Brielle nods once, a quick tilt of her chin. “And what is the countermeasure here?”
I don’t want to tell her. I turn away, looking down at my own two hands. Mostly human hands now. In the time it took for me to tell my tale, my body has reassumed much of its human shape. I realize with a grimace how very naked I am, clad only in the little bit of shredded trousers that hang from my hips. I’ve grown so accustomed to my own nakedness out in the forest, almost immune to embarrassment. But here, standing in my family home, I feel the shame once more.
Gritting my teeth, I take another few steps away from the girl and put a moss-covered chair between us. “My curse,” I say, “is not your concern. For now, you should concentrate on your own recovery. You lost a lot of blood, and it would be best if you stay in bed for the next several days.”
“Several days?” She fixes that hard, stern gaze of hers on me. Even without my wolf senses, I can almost smell her conflict as she tries to decide whether she’s going to protest. In the end, however, she merely nods again.
“There are some small stores of edible goods still in the larder,” I say, filling that awkward silence. “I’ll prepare something and bring it up to your room.”
Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t like being waited on; she doesn’t like being vulnerable. Especially not in front of me. I hold her gaze, keeping my expression carefully blank and still. If I insist, I’ll only provoke her. My best bet is to hold my tongue.
Without a word, she marches to the salon door. In the doorway, she pauses, however. For a moment, I fear she’s going to turn back and question me further. My heart thuds uncomfortably in my throat as I wait, wait . . .
Then, with a little shrug of her shoulders, she leaves. Not another word. Not even another glance. Nothing.
A sigh eases from my lungs. I bend heavily over the back of the chair, lean my elbows into the mossy upholstery, and close my eyes. Gods on high, what have I gotten myself into? Bringing Elorata’s huntress here. Tending her wounds. Caring for her.
“You’re a fool,” I whisper venomously. “Such a fool! The minute she recovers, she’ll be after you again. She may have resisted the witch’s power once, but it won’t last. Elorata will redouble her hold.” I shake my head, my long hair falling about my shoulders. “If you had any sense at all, you would have let her bleed out and be done with it.”
I’m not wrong. That’s what a wise man would have done. What a survivor would have done. And yet . . .
I cannot quite make myself regret my choice, foolish though it may be.
Four days pass slowly.
Dawn of the fifth day finds me climbing the stair of Phaendar Hall, wearing my human form. I’ve taken to visiting my patient at this hour before the wolf inside begins to dominate again. I don’t like being indoors as an animal. Especially not here, in my own home. Instead, I spend my days and nights wandering the Wood, seeking out any sign of other werebeasts or servants Elorata may have sent searching for her wayward huntress. So far, there’s been nothing.
But that doesn’t mean I can relax my guard.
I donned some of my old garments this morning, as soon as my morphing limbs could fit into the shirtsleeves and trousers. An entire wardrobe of fine clothes is still there in my old bedroom, all twenty years out of date, of course, and not quite fitted to my leaner, rangier frame. But at least I’m not naked. Dressed like this, I’ve even dared several times to venture into Gilhorn, the nearest town, which stands beyond the boundary of the encroaching Wood. I discovered a stash of coin in my father’s office, so I have plenty of money with which to pay for bread, cheese, and sausages, all of which I now carry on a platter up the stairs to my mother’s old room.
To Brielle’s room.
A rush of heat rises in my cheeks as I approach her door. I feel a bit foolish, waiting on her like this. Like a servant in my own home! But, well, if I’m honest . . . I also rather enjoy it. It’s nice to have someone to care for again.
I stand outside her door in the gloomy passage, shift the tray to one hand, and knock. There’s an answering grunt from inside, followed by a curse and a bleary, “Who’s there?”
A grin pulls at the corners of my mouth. “It’s me,” I answer quietly.
A few more grunts and curses, each sharper than the last. Then, with a loud clearing of her throat, she calls out in a clearer tone, “Come in.”
The latch gives at my touch. I push open the door and step into the room. It’s still quite dark inside, but Brielle has lit a candle, and by its light I see her sitting propped against her pillows, rubbing the heels of both hands into her eyes. Her hair is a snarled thicket of tangles, framing her pixie face.
I pause in the doorway. Though I try not to let it, my gaze drifts downward. She’s wearing a nightdress. One of my mother’s, festooned with ribbons and lace along the loose, round neckline. It’s so ornate, so completely unsuited to a wild thing like Brielle. But she makes a charming picture, nonetheless. Snarled hair, sleep-drawn face, and all.
Giving my head a quick shake, I stride across the room and set the platter down on the bedside table beside the candle. She lowers her hands from her face, looking at the plate, not at me. I see her gaze try to flick my way, but she quickly refocuses on the humble meal I’ve brought.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she says, her sleepy voice more a growl than mine. “Wait on me, I mean. It’s not like I’m some fine lady. I’m used to looking after myself.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t intend to make a habit of it.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “I need to check your wound, make certain there’s no infection. If there’s anything wrong, I need to see to it now before . . .” I don’t bother finishing but hold up my hands. They won’t be human much longer, won’t be dexterous enough to manage bandages or salves or needles.
Brielle attempts once more to meet my gaze. She holds it a little longer before lowering her lashes. For a long moment, she simply sits there, unmoving.
Then, without a word, she slides the neckline of her gown down over her shoulder, revealing the bandage. Slipping her arm out of the sleeve entirely, she presses one hand against her bosom, holding the lace and ribbons in place. Her head turns away from me, her gaze fixed on the wall.
My throat thickens.
After all I’ve seen and done, the sight of one bare shoulder shouldn’t be enough to catch me off guard like this. Gods on high, it was only days ago that I cut the garments off her body and treated the open wound! What’s a little flesh to me?
But I can’t fully ignore the way my pulse rushes as I stare at that smooth white skin dotted here and there by little brown freckles. I can’t deny the sudden longing I feel to put out my hand and run a finger down her throat, across her collarbone, the length of her arm, watching the gooseflesh rise at my touch . . .
I clear my throat, set my face in a stern frown, and focus my attention on the bandage. Brisk, businesslike—that’s what I am as I unwind the strips of cloth, lifting her arm gently as I do so and watching her wince. There’s still a good deal of pain as she heals, but the bandage is only a little bloodstained, and the scar and stitches are neat and tidy, the flesh a healthy pink. I’m pleased at the sight of my own work. Apparently twenty years was not enough to make me forget a basic suturing and field dressing. I may have made a decent doctor if I’d had a chance to finish my studies.
“Good,” I murmur, speaking to the stern profile turned pointedly away from me. “This is healing better than I expected. How does it feel when I do this?” I lift her arm to shoulder level and move it slightly outward.
She winces again. “Not nice,” she admits. “But not too bad either.”
“Well, we can’t expect overnight miracles, can we?” I pull fresh bandages from the pocket of my tunic and wind them in place, trying to be mindful of her soreness. Trying as well not to notice how my fingertips seem to spark and tingle at each brush with her bare skin. Once I’m through, I help her guide her arm back into the sleeve, sliding the lace and ribbons up into place on her shoulder, covering the bandages.
Not once does she look at me.
I rise, step across the room to the pitcher and basin on the washstand, and set to work scrubbing my hands, taking perhaps more care with the little lump of soap than is altogether necessary. While my back is to her, I toss back over my shoulder, “I should imagine you’ll be fit enough to travel in another day or two.”
“Oh?” Her voice sounds small, almost childlike. I’ve never heard it sound that way before. “Good,” she adds eventually.
I stand at the basin, my hands in the water, pretending still to wash. Really, though, I’m just afraid. Afraid to turn around. Afraid to face her.
These last four days, we haven’t discussed what will happen once she’s better. While in human form, I concentrated on providing for her basic needs—food, medical care, water. While in animal form, I slipped out into the forest and cared for my own, baser needs—hunting, feeding, sleeping. In those strange between times, when I was neither fully animal nor fully man, I tried not to think about what comes next.
But I can’t ignore it anymore. Brielle is still bound to Elorata Dorrel’s service. The witch must know by now that her huntress failed, that her own powerful compulsions broke down in the moment of crisis. She’s most likely gathering her power, ready to reach out and reclaim her prodigal granddaughter.
And as for me? Well, Conrad may have met a watery end, but there are plenty of other Monster Hunters to be had for the right price. Soon enough, another one will be on my trail.
I’ve got to decide what I’ll do with whatever time remains to me.
If only I could travel to the nearest ward and tell the witch there the truth about my enslavement. Judging by the dinner conversation I’d observed all those months ago, the witches of the surrounding wards have no idea what is truly happening in this wardship. Perhaps if they knew, perhaps if they banded together, they could put a stop to Granny.
But there’s no point in thinking this way. I cannot cross the borders of Elorata’s wardship. I’ve seen what happens to other werebeasts who try. The moment they set a toe on the far side of the boundary, death spells are activated—swift and dreadful.
Our cruel mistress will never let any of us escape.
I bow my head, grimacing down into the water basin. It’s pretty—blue-and-white porcelain with an image of dancing maidens at the bottom, carefree and laughing. They don’t dance alone, however. Strange folk twirl with the maidens, folk with horned heads and clawed hands and hooves for feet. It’s a pretty depiction of Glorandal—the one night a year in which the fae folk of Eledria are permitted to enter the human world and dance from dusk till dawn.
My brow puckers. The faintest inkling of an idea tickles the back of my brain.
“We need to make a plan,” I say. “For you.”
Brielle looks up from the food platter I brought her, a large bite of cheese stuffed into one cheek. Chewing hastily, she swallows and blinks at me. “What kind of a plan?”
“If you’re going to remain free of Elorata’s control, you’ll need to escape this wardship.”
She takes another bite, chews a little more slowly. Then she sets the cheese down and pushes the plate back on the table. Her fingers fiddle with the edge of the blanket draped over her legs. “Do you . . . do you think it’s possible? To escape, I mean.”
I step back across the room and sit once more on the edge of her bed, earnestly meeting her gaze. “You are still under the bargain you made with Elorata, which means you cannot cross the boundaries of her wardship. I can’t say for sure, but I would be willing to bet that to do so will mean instant death.”
“Oh, great.” Brielle rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Sounds like escape is pretty much out of the question then.”
“Not,” I say, leaning a little closer to emphasize my words, “if you go deeper into Whispering Wood.”
She frowns. I can see her mind churning, trying to understand what I’ve just said. She’ll get there on her own, of course, but I’m too impatient to wait. “You don’t have to actually leave Elorata’s wardship. Find one of the gates; enter Faerieland. And never come back.”
Her eyes grow slowly rounder as she processes what I’ve just said. Her lips part, her jaw dropping slightly open. I can see a glow of hope dawning in her face.
Then she blinks and shakes her head quickly. “That sounds a good deal like suicide to me. I’m human! I’ve traveled in and out of the gates here and there, but never for more than a few hours. How long would a human like me even last in Faerieland?”
“You could go to your sister.”
“What?”
I reach out with one hand and very nearly take hold of one of hers before I realize what I’m doing. Hastily I snatch my hand back, planting a firm fist on the bedding instead. “Didn’t you tell me your sister was stolen away to be a fae lord’s bride? She’s got to be there somewhere. In Eledria. She would welcome you.”
But Brielle shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know. I truly don’t know. They were . . . she was parted from her husband.” She tucks her chin, and I glimpse a flash of shame cross her face. There’s some story here that I don’t know. Something dark. She rubs the heel of her left hand into her eye again, as though trying to force some unpleasant thought out of her head. “The last I saw Valera, she was on her way into Faerieland to find him. But she’s . . . she’s not like me. She’s not used to the ways of the Wood or the fae. I . . . I don’t know if . . .”
I nod gravely. “You don’t know if she survived.”
Brielle sniffs suddenly and shakes her head. Is that a gleam of tears I see?
This time, when my hand stretches out, I don’t stop it. I wrap my fingers around hers and squeeze gently. She starts, and for a moment I think she’ll pull away. Instead, she goes very still, like a wild creature caught in a trap.
“Brielle,” I say, trying to make her look at me again. “There’s always a chance, you know. She may have found him. They may even now be reunited and settled somewhere. Somewhere you will be welcomed.”
Her teeth chew her soft lower lip. Finally she speaks again in a low voice. “It doesn’t matter. Even if she did, I have no idea where she is. Faerieland is huge—a hundred worlds upon worlds, all layered on top of one another. I can’t just go wandering in and hope for the best.”
“No. But perhaps we can discover a clue. Something to give you direction.”
She looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Glorandal Night,” I answer. “It’s coming soon, tomorrow night, in fact. The fae will slip out from the Wood to mingle with mortals. If you attend, you could ask around. If a fae lord has taken a human bride, you can be sure word has spread like wildfire throughout the various courts and realms of Faerie. You might be able to pick up some information, some clue to your sister’s whereabouts.”
A dangerous light of hope sparks in her eye. I could almost kick myself for daring to ignite it in her, for I know too well how painful a new hope can be. But at least it’s something. At least it’s better than waiting around for Granny Dorrel to find her again.
“If I go,” Brielle says slowly, “if I pass through a gate, I’ll never be able to return. Not to this world.”
I shrug. But when I speak again, my voice is a little huskier than I intend. “Would that be such a hardship?”
She opens her mouth, closes it again, and looks down at her hand, still clasped in mine.
Then she says softly, “I’ve got nothing to keep me here.”
I stand, letting go of her fingers and stepping back from the bed. I don’t know why, but . . . but for some reason I’m disappointed. Bitterly so.
“Good,” I say, and turn my back to her, striding to one of the open, vine-choked windows. “It’s a plan then. We’ll attend the Glorandal Dance in Gilhorn tomorrow night. We’ll question the fae, learn what we can. And the next day, if the gods are good, we’ll set you off on the right path. You should be out of your grandmother’s reach before sunset two days hence.”
“Yes,” she says behind me. “If the gods are good.”
Morning is well progressed by now. I look down at my hands. Gray fur creeps in beneath the cuffs of my sleeves. If I don’t go soon, my warping body will rip through these garments and leave them in tatters.
“Rest now,” I say, turning from the window and making for the door without another look her way. “You want that shoulder as strong as possible for your journey.”
“What will you do, Dire?”
I stop short, partway out the door. My head and shoulders bow as though suddenly bearing a tremendous weight.
“Granny will send another Monster Hunter,” Brielle continues, her tone edged like a blade. “Are you just going to wait around to be tracked down? Like an animal?”
Slowly, I turn my head, look at her over my shoulder. “But that’s what I am. Isn’t it?”
I leave the room and shut the door behind me.