For the Wolf by Hannah F. Whitten
Chapter Twelve
Red’s breath was one more cloud in the fog-covered courtyard, spiraling from her lips in the chill air. She craned her neck upward as she followed the wall to the tower. From this angle, the windows at its top lined up perfectly, forming gaps of sky in the stone.
The moss-covered door creaked slightly as she pushed it open, startlingly loud in the silence of the Wilderwood. Beyond it, a staircase climbed up into darkness. Overgrowth lined the walls, leaves and pale blooms papering the gray rock in shades of white and green. Unlike the Keep, it didn’t seem sinister here— part of the structure, rather than an invader. Still, she took care not to touch it.
The staircase spiraled upward far enough to make her winded before finally ending right in the center of a circular room. No greenery here, but four equidistant windows set into the curved wall with flowers and vines carved into their sills, a wooden imitation. A merrily crackling hearth stood between two of them, filled with wood that didn’t char, and a small wooden table flanked with two chairs sat near enough to feel its warmth. The midnight-blue ceiling rose to a point over the central stairs, where a paper sun hung, crafted in layered gold and yellow.
Painted silver constellations spangled out from the paper sun, exquisitely detailed— the Sisters, hands stretching from north to south to meet in the center; the Leviathan, cutting through the western sky; the Plague Stars, clustered together above the rough outline of a ship. According to legend, the Plague Stars had appeared to guide the vessel carrying traders infected with the Great Plague back to the mainland. The stars had snuffed out the moment those afflicted were suddenly, miraculously cured.
“This is beautiful,” Red murmured, turning in a circle with her eyes still on the ceiling.
A brief snort snapped her attention away. Eammon leaned against the windowsill behind her, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a steaming mug. His hair was tied back, the short tuft where she’d cut it for their thread bond sticking out awkwardly behind his ear. “The handiwork of the Wilderwood. The tower and the Keep sprang up when Gaya and Ciaran made their bargain, fully furnished.” He sipped from his cup. “A housewarming present. Ciaran built the rest of the Keep around it.”
Ciaran. Gaya. He never referred to them as his parents, only by their names or titles. Turning them into distant people who didn’t require warmth.
She knew the feeling.
Red went to the hearth and chafed her hands. The windows had no panes, and the room was as cold as the forest outside. “So the Wilderwood made these?” She gestured to the paintings on the ceiling.
“No.” Eammon walked to the table in the center of the room and poured more coffee from a waiting kettle. Another mug sat next to it; he looked to Red, eyes a question. At her nod, he filled the second mug, too. “Gaya painted them.”
Her eyes turned to the constellations again, an odd, weighty feeling in her chest.
“Any particular reason to meet here?” She picked up the mug he’d poured her, wrapping her hands around its warmth. “Pardon the observation, but you don’t seem to like it much.”
He made a gruff noise that might’ve been a laugh. Eammon sank into one of the chairs, tipping it back on two legs. “Because this place was made by the Wilderwood, so its magic is stronger here.”
The knot of her magic still felt looser this morning, teased apart, untangled. The result of their quick thread-bond marriage, she knew, but now that she turned her thoughts to it, some of the ease might come from the tower, too. Blooming along with the flowers on the walls as she moved up the stairwell.
Still, the thought of using it hollowed a pit in her stomach.
The coffee was strong, and bitter enough to make Red pull a face. “Could the Wilderwood’s magic manage to conjure up some cream?”
“Afraid not. I’ll add it to the supply list.” Eammon took a long drink of his own. “For all its force, the Wilderwood’s power is rather limited. It can affect growing things, or anything else connected to the forest, but that’s about it.”
“It can heal wounds, too.”
“Only if the wounded person is connected to the Wilderwood.”
She tightened her grip on her cup to keep from touching her face, the place along her cheekbone where the thorn had scored her a week ago. “You didn’t really heal it, though,” she said. “You just . . . took it. It showed up on you.”
“Pain has to go somewhere.” The chair legs creaked as Eammon leaned back. “It’s a balance. The vine that lights the Keep will hold the flames without burning, but it won’t grow. Neither will the branches the firewood was cut from. Wounds can’t just go away— they’re transferred.”
They didn’t look at each other, but the awareness was solid as a stare. Red took another sip of her bitter coffee.
“Your power must work similarly to mine,” Eammon said to the ceiling. “Since they’re the same thing. Mostly.”
Her brow furrowed. “But when I can’t keep it contained, I don’t . . . like how you . . .” She trailed off, not sure how to phrase it delicately.
“You don’t change like I do.” Quiet but matter-of-fact.
“No,” she murmured. “I don’t.”
A visible swallow down the column of his throat. “My ties to the Wilderwood are stronger than yours,” Eammon said. “And when I use its power, it . . . takes part of me away. The changes fade, usually, but it’s still unpleasant. And some things linger.” He shrugged, stilted. “That’s why I use blood, sometimes. It works the same way the magic does, without opening me up to quite as much alteration.”
The last word came out bitter. Still looking at the ceiling, Eammon rubbed at the spot above his wristbone where she’d seen bark edge through his skin.
Red nodded, sliding her gaze from his silhouette to the wavering reflection in her coffee mug. “So I won’t change, because my magic isn’t as strong as yours.”
“Exactly. Not as strong, and more chaotic.”
“To put it mildly.”
“We should focus on control, then. Channeling only a small amount at a time, directed to a specific task.”
Nerves sparked, sending her floundering for some distraction to stall the inevitable. Red sank into the chair across from him, mug clenched tightly between her palms. “Why does the magic affect growing things?”
“When Ciaran and Gaya made their bargain, the sentinels rooted in them. Became part of them.” The belabored chair legs squeaked as Eammon leaned back, reciting history to the paper sun. Willing to let her put this off, if having every question answered would make her more comfortable. “So the Wolf and the Second Daughter can control the things of the earth, the things with roots. They’re under the sentinels’ influence, and thus under ours.”
Her mind riffled through all the times she’d had to steel herself against her seed of magic, miles and miles from the Wilderwood. “For having such a limited purview, the sentinels’ influence seems to stretch rather far.”
“I wouldn’t know. It’s been centuries since I could leave this damn forest.” The four chair legs clattered to the ground. “It traps Wardens better than it does shadow-creatures.”
“Wardens?”
“The words for ‘Warden’ and ‘Wolf’ are remarkably similar in most of the continent’s ancient languages.”
“There has to be more to it than that.”
“Ciaran was a huntsman.” Eammon stood and strode across the room to one of the vine-carved windows. A small ceramic planter sat there, green ivy curling over the edge. He picked it up and brought it to the table, bracing his hands on either side. “Before he ran off with Gaya, his proudest achievement was slaying a giant, monstrous wolf that prowled at the edges of his village— a child of one of the things trapped in the Shadowlands, before they all died off. They called him the Wolf long before he came here, and the word for ‘Warden’ wasn’t different enough for them to stop.” He flashed her a sharp smile and slid the ivy in her direction. “To be honest, I prefer Wolf.”
“Maybe people wouldn’t think you a monster if you were called the Warden instead.”
“Maybe I don’t mind them thinking I’m a monster.”
It was meant to sound fierce, and on the surface it did. But there was something about the depth of belief in it that plucked a chord in her chest. Red lightly twisted one of the ivy tendrils around her finger.
Eammon sat properly in his chair this time, no precarious tipping backward. “We’ll keep it simple.” He gestured to the ivy. “You’re going to make that grow.”
Red slid her half-drunk mug to the side, hoping he couldn’t see the tremor in her hands as she settled them on either side of the pot. “How exactly do I do this without calamity, then? We made the magic easier to manage, but I’m still not exactly confident.”
The mention of their marriage, oblique as it was, made their eyes dart away from each other.
“Focus your intention,” Eammon said after a laden moment. “Once you have it clearly in your mind, open up to the forest’s power. It’s . . . intuitive.” He looked up from his scarred knuckles to her face. “It’s part of you.”
Part of you. She thought of the changes magic wrought in him, the bark and the green eyes, the height and layered voice. A scale tipping back and forth, man to forest, bone to branch.
The bloom of magic in her middle stretched upward. Something she could wield, if she was brave enough. If she could swallow down the memories of the times before—
Red closed her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head, like those thoughts were something she could physically dispel. “I’m ready.”
“I’m here.”
The quiet reassurance soothed some of the anxious tension in her limbs. Letting out a long, slow breath, she tried to quiet her racing thoughts, to focus her intention. Growth, roots digging deeper into the soil as ivy leaves spread wide.
When it was clear in her mind, she reached for her power. Tentative, the barest touch, but it opened like a flower.
And for a brief, gleaming moment, Red thought she could do it.
But memory was a current, and the deliberate touch of power pulled her under, drowned her in panic. All of it ran behind her eyes like it was happening over again: an eruption of branch and root and thorn, blood spraying, rib cages shattered by sharp trunks, Neve slumping to the ground—
“Red!” She heard it through a haze, distant as shouting into a cyclone. All she could see was black forest, black sky, all she could taste was soil and blood. Distantly, she felt her spine locking up, her throat working for air that wouldn’t come, her body shutting itself down in a final attempt to keep her magic shackled.
A strong grip on her shoulders, turning her to wide amber eyes. The Wolf’s warm, scarred hands against her cheeks. “Red, let go!”
His voice, his eyes wrenched her from memory’s grip. Red gasped, pulling air into lungs that suddenly worked again.
Eammon released her almost immediately, like her skin burned. “What in all the shadows was that?”
The table’s edge dug into her back, a counterpoint to her thundering pulse. “I can’t do it. I thought I could, after the thread bond, but I can’t.”
“You have before. You did a week ago.”
“That wasn’t control! That was barely containment!” Red slashed her hand toward the window. “Want to try throwing me to the Wilderwood again? See if that sparks some control?”
Eammon stepped back, hands raised in surrender. Firelight flickered across the scars on his palm.
The door below clattered open and shattered the fraught silence, footsteps rushing up the stairs. Fife’s reddish hair topped the landing, sweaty strands stuck to his forehead.
“Word from the Edge,” he panted. “Breach to the west, but there’s a complication.”
“What kind of complication?” Eammon’s eyes were still on Red, somewhere between angry and wounded.
Fife’s jaw tightened. “They were looking for a break in the border again. Found a full breach instead. And someone . . . fell.”
That was enough to pull Eammon’s attention away. He nodded, one jerk of his head. “Lock the Keep, then come back here. It’s more secure.”
“I should come with you.”
“Too dangerous. If someone has already fallen into a full-fledged breach, they’ll be looking to pull in others. You’ll be more helpful here.” Eammon’s gaze flickered nearly imperceptibly to Red, then back to Fife.
The other man’s brows drew together. He nodded.
As Fife disappeared down the stairs, Eammon crossed to the fireplace. A long knife gleamed on the mantel, as well as the short dagger he’d worn before. The one he sliced his hand with. Eammon took both. “Stay here.” He glanced at her over his shoulder, eyes stern. “Do not leave the tower.”
Questions and admonishments rioted through her head. But when Red opened her mouth, what came out was “Be careful.”