Children of the Wolves (14 page)

Michael saw Jelena carry her tray back into the kitchen, barely having enough time to dump the load and pause for breath before returning to the dining hall for another load.

“Do you still hold to that superstition about protectors and newlyborn?” Marguerite murmured to Teresa. “We gave that up years ago. You see, we have found that a partner bond actually increases the awakening rate and improves the chances for a very helpful calling.”

“Really?” Teresa asked, bristling with interest. “We have so little contact with other tribes, it's hard to know what's true and what's just the storyteller spinning legends.”

“Oh, yes,” Marguerite said, and to Michael her smile looked sly. “Of course, we have a written record.”

Teresa met this statement with a moment of quiet respect and admiration. “You mean you've awakened a writer?”

“My dear,” Marguerite laughed, “our entire tribe can read and write.”

Teresa looked at her in astonishment. “What a truly remarkable thing,” she said.

“Most helpful,” Marguerite said.

Michael moved away from the table. He was not surprised that Marguerite's tribe was literate but he wondered what use it was. In a society that still relied on backbreaking labor, it seemed a luxury.

The other Sithans still ranged about the room. Michael had convened the riders and assigned one to shadow each Sithan warrior in the guise of excessive hospitality. But the Sithans didn't seem to be there to take advantage of the good nature of the Wudu-faesten. They made no move to slaughter them all in the main hall. Yet Michael could not imagine what they were there for at all.

Archibald had cornered the bearded man that Michael believed was Marguerite's second in command. The man tolerated the elder's conversation but Michael knew no bonds of courtesy would stop him if he grew bored and decided to leave and seek other entertainment. So the second was deliberately encouraging this conversation. Again Michael couldn't understand why.

The gathering wound down, with many of the Wudu-faesten slipping off to their quarters, including some of the riders who'd stand watch later in the night.

Michael saw Jelena picking up the last few mugs and wiping down a table in the corner. He wanted to talk to her but before he could approach, a warm slender hand on his arm stopped him. Turning, he saw that Marguerite had followed him across the room. His shoulders stiffened.

“You've certainly changed since the last time I saw you,” Marguerite purred, running her hand lightly down his arm.

That was undoubtedly true; he had barely been awakened the last time they met and hadn't learned his calling yet.

“I have many responsibilities now,” he replied.

“I understand,” Marguerite said. “You're not the same impetuous man you used to be.”

Impetuous. Michael almost smiled at the characterization. Impetuous wasn't a word anyone would use to describe him these days. He glanced over his shoulder. He could tell by the set of Jelena's shoulders that she was taking in every word, even though she kept her head bent as if she were wholly focused on her chores.

“You've changed, too,” he said to Marguerite. “Apparently you awakened and found your calling.”

“Something of a shock at first,” Marguerite said. “But I've grown into it.”

But not much of a shock to anyone who knew Marguerite's true nature. No, not much of a shock at all.

She gave him a measured glance and said, “So it seems a partnership between us might have been good for our tribes after all.”

But not for me.
Michael didn't always put his own needs ahead of the people's, but he did when it came to partnering with murderous women. Unless the Wudu-faesten wanted to be swallowed whole by the Sithan tribe, a partnership probably wouldn't have been in the people's best interest anyway.

It would be impolite to say so to Marguerite's face. He decided to change the subject and to make it clear that he was changing the subject.

“Did you know your blood sister was newlyborn here?” he asked. He gave another glance in Jelena's direction. She still had her back to him but she'd abandoned any pretense of working and listened openly to them.

“Oh, really?” Marguerite's tone was brittle.

“Do you remember anything of her pastself?”

“My blood sister? Oh, my dear, she was nothing. Nothing. A drudge. I can't think why the makers saved her. She was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Michael repeated, his voice non-committal.

“Now you, Michael,” Marguerite said, dismissing Jelena and her pastself. The rustle of her clothes warned Michael that she was making her move. “You found your calling, too …”

Jelena darted out of the room, her eyes swimming with tears. A nothing. A drudge. No wonder she was unawakened; there was nothing to awaken her to. She slammed the full tray down on the kitchen counter and the pottery mugs bounced. Michael hadn't even rushed to her defense the way she'd expected him to, the way he would have done if he were still her protector.

He must have believed what Marguerite said was true. Jelena's chin jerked up as she realized that of course he had believed it was true. She was unawakened now and he ignored her, probably thinking her unworthy of his time, the way all of the awakened felt of the unawakened.

One of the trueborn came flying into the kitchen, a golden-haired child chased by her older brother, both of them giggling.
Just like Jasmine
, Jelena thought fiercely as the little girl shrieked in pretended fear and took refuge behind Bertha's ample bulk.
Like Jasmine.
Jelena's hand went to the pendant dangling from her throat. Of course. She'd had a child. A golden-haired child of her own.
Jasmine
. And then it was gone, the indistinct memory melting away.

“Go on now,” Bertha said to the children without heat. “Off you go and don't bother the guests.”

“Why do you think we're in here bothering you?” the little boy asked impishly.

“Off with you,” Bertha said again, shaking her head. “Now,” she said, turning back to Jelena, “you've got the last of the dishes it looks. Why, dear, whatever's the matter?”

Jelena wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I wasn't nothing,” she said.

“Of course not,” Bertha said.

“That's what Marguerite said,” Jelena said, thrusting her chin out. “I heard her telling Michael I was a drudge and a nobody in my pastself.”

“
Tchaa,
” Bertha said. “I've taken the measure of that woman. You don't think she can speak a word of truth, do you?”

“I am unawakened,” Jelena said.

“There is that.”

“But I wasn't nothing. I had a little girl with golden curls. I was somebody's mother. That's not nothing.”

“Of course not.”

“I think she might have died young.”

“It could be.”

“Or else why would I have been saved without her?”

Bertha didn't respond. Jelena's hand closed around the pendant again.

But of course no children had been saved. Only adults. Had she — could she have — left a child behind to die in the Great Disaster? Could she have let the makers save her and let her daughter die?

What kind of woman would do that? Bertha's silence seemed to suggest she knew or believed that other women — or men — had left their children behind in the Great Disaster.

But Jelena wouldn't want to be that woman. Maybe it was good to be unawakened. Then she would never have to know if she had left a golden-haired child behind in order to save herself.

• • •

“They're as obnoxious leaving as they were arriving,” Jelena said the following morning, scrubbing furiously at a stained dish that had been left overnight when she and Bertha and the helpers had tumbled, exhausted, into their beds.

“It's true I'm glad to see the backside of that woman,” Bertha agreed, wrapping a dish of pork cracklings in a cloth and putting it in the pantry. “But maybe we'll have peace between our tribes now.”

“Do you really think so? Because I don't trust them at all. I believe they came to learn firsthand about our security, our defenses — and our wealth.”

Bertha gave her a sharp, appraising look. “We have no wealth.”

“And by all that's good, we never will.”

That evening, she heard Michael's voice in the dining hall. He didn't spend much time in the main hall, and she missed him. She hadn't had much opportunity to speak with him last night, and she'd been upset over Marguerite's remarks about her. She slipped out of the kitchen and saw him sitting at a table with Danielle, Rufus, and Charmaine, the four of them laughing and joking together. She stopped, hesitating. If she went over to the group, they would be polite. But they would stop laughing and joking. She would be an intrusion.

She remembered her friend Amy's words: “You're never exactly the lightest heart in the house.” Danielle's eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she looked up at Michael with affection and he grinned down at her.

Why not? Why shouldn't Michael enjoy companionship with a woman who reduced the cares of the day and relieved his burdens instead of adding to them? Unlike Jelena, who was difficult and complex, who challenged everything and only rarely smiled.

She turned abruptly and went back to the kitchen and through to her small sleeping room, not hearing or acknowledging Bertha, who asked if she had a headache.

Later, Bertha brought a cup of tea to her in the sleeping room. Jelena struggled to sit up and hide the signs of her tears but Bertha just patted her on the shoulder and fluffed her pillow and encouraged her to lean back against it.

“You're not usually one to encourage sloth,” Jelena said, sipping at the tea. Some of the tension eased out of her shoulders.

Bertha appeared to be debating something with herself. Then she shook her head sharply and said, “You do care for Michael, don't you?” A pause, and then, to clarify, “
That
way, I mean.”

Jelena choked on a swallow of tea. Recovering herself, she set the cup on the floor near her pallet but didn't respond.

“Come now, child,” Bertha chided. “I'll not tell anyone.”

Jelena settled back against the pillow. “Of course I care about Michael,” she said. “As I care about you and — ”

“Ay,” Bertha said. “But you don't long to share a bed with me, do you?”

Jelena bit back a startled remark, then, not knowing what else to do, began to laugh. She reached over and patted the other woman's hand.

“You're right. Much as I care about you, I don't want to share a bed with you.”

“But Michael?”

“Michael can be thrown to the wolves for all I care.”

Bertha studied her face for a long moment, her eyes worried.

“I'm not a seer,” she said. “But I think as much as you love Michael, you must love Jelena more.”

The words stung like ice carving across her skin. Did Bertha believe Michael was unsuitable for Jelena? That a relationship between them was undesirable, impossible — and even harmful?

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

The old woman sighed. “I think,” she said, speaking with obvious reluctance, “that there may be a time when you must choose between doing what Michael would wish and what you know you must do.”

Jelena looked at the other woman's enigmatic, closed face. “That's not very helpful.”

Bertha rose to go.

“You'll know the time,” she said, and then she was gone.

Jelena rolled over onto her stomach and buried her head under the pillow. She had known, when she left Michael's protection, that being an unawakened would be difficult. Painful, even. And now Bertha seemed to suggest that the rift Jelena had felt open between herself and Michael would only get wider. She didn't want to believe it, as much as her heart knew its truth. She'd known that leaving Michael's protection would change everything.

But somehow she hadn't thought it would be so hard. There was nothing noble and elevated about it at all. It just hurt. Nothing more. Her heart ached and there was no cure for it.

• • •

The next morning brought a cooler breeze into the kitchen, heralding the end of summer days and the beginning of autumn. But instead of invigorating Bertha, as it did Jelena, the coolness left her grumbling at the worktable and rubbing her fingers.

“What is it, Bertha?” Jelena asked, taking the paring knife from the other woman to peel the potatoes herself. “It's a beautiful day. Feel that breeze!”

Bertha grunted. Jelena rolled her eyes and said, “Come on! Out with it.”

“It's nothing,” Bertha said, although her surly manner belied her words.

“It's the rheumatism, it is,” Matthias chirped, hauling two buckets of water from the pump over to the table. “She always gets like this when the weather changes, doncha, Bertha?”

Bertha muttered something and heaved herself to her feet, stomping into the pantry. But Jelena had seen the strain on her face.

“What does she usually do?” Jelena asked Matthias, grabbing him by the collar before he could scarper out of his duties.

“Well, she stews a while and then brews up some ginger beer. That works a treat.”

“Ginger?” Jelena said. “Where does she get it?” The kitchen garden didn't run to ginger.

“Old Isolde grows ginger root in that garden of hers,” Matthias said.

Isolde had been their healer before the unfortunate event with Timothy that had led to her seclusion from the villagers. The physician had been awakened in the interim, so her skills were rarely called upon these days, although she willingly gave of her knowledge when asked. But Jelena knew Bertha would never condescend to visit the physician for help.

She made a decision. Pulling off her apron, she told Matthias to finish hauling the water, then headed to Isolde's isolated cabin at the far end of the main compound to fetch ginger root for the old woman.