Children of the Wolves (2 page)

An answering howl rent the air. The sentries stirred uneasily, lifting their lanterns high, unsheathing their broadswords, walking the perimeter fence now, moving in opposite directions as they had been trained.

“Have you lost your wits?” Michael demanded. “They'll invade the village if they think — ”

“They've never invaded the village. They're just going to scrounge in the midden,” she said.

For the other villagers, the knowledge that wolves lived on the other side of the fence cast a pall of unease over their time spent out of doors. But Jelena empathized with the animals, whose sleek, powerful bodies she sometimes glimpsed slipping among the trees. They were outside, trying to get in. It wasn't their fault the villagers thought they didn't belong.

Now she shrugged free of Michael's restraining hands and ran down the porch steps toward the gate, wanting to swing it open and let the animals in. Or maybe she meant to let herself out; she couldn't be sure. She heard Michael swear under his breath, then the sound of his boots as he descended the wooden steps to follow her. In a moment, she reached the gate but knew she was too late. The wolves were gone. Vanished, the way they seemed to do; ghosts in the uncertain light. Her excitement ebbed and her body sagged. What had frightened the wolves off? The sentries hadn't done anything.

“A rider approaches,” the closest sentry said, pointing into the distance. Her companion lifted his lantern to illuminate the darkness.

Michael turned to stare into the shadows in the direction the sentry indicated. Jelena narrowed her eyes and made out a darker shadow moving down the path that had been hacked through the trees. A clearing had been made in the area before the gate so that anyone approaching could be seen before he or she reached the fence. But in the darkness it was difficult to recognize the shapeless shadows.

“Something's wrong,” the sentry said.

“Yes.” Michael turned to Jelena. “Quietly. Alert five or six of the riders. Have them bring weapons.”

Jelena nodded her acknowledgment, then set off across the courtyard for the main hall. The stairs creaked beneath her boots as she darted up them. When she pushed open the door, raucous sounds of laughter and merriment greeted her, an almost physical assault after the tense quiet of the outdoors. She stopped for a moment to get her bearings.

The storyteller held forth to a small group in the corner of the common room. At benches scattered throughout satisfied partners sat entwined. A few trueborn children raced around the room chasing the old calico cat and each other, every now and then tripping up a tipsy adult to the uproarious laughter of the group.

For a sharp-edged, disorienting moment, Jelena looked upon the scene as a stranger might, as if she had never been here before, as if she did not know these people.

A quick shake of her head cleared it. She crossed the threshold. Now she moved swiftly through the crowded room, picking Berquist the Carter — a dour man who never drank — Derek the Smith, Viktor the Musician, Emma the Herder, and Old Jack, the Mechanic, who could still shoot an arrow straight and true despite his age and who had the redeeming quality of being able to hold his liquor under all circumstances.

Quickly, Jelena explained what was happening and they wasted no time, racing off for equipment, lighting torches, then spreading out to stand guard over their posts scattered about the perimeter of the compound. They would give up the outer buildings but they would protect the main hall against all enemies. The other members of the tribe watched them but despite their obvious curiosity did not ask questions. That kind of discipline was bred in the bone of all who lived here.

She rejoined Michael at the main gate, handing him the lantern she'd grabbed from the post outside of the main hall. They watched tensely as the horse and its strange rider drew nearer the gate.

“Umluan?” one of the sentries guessed.

“It's one of ours,” Michael said, as the horse picked its way forward. No one doubted his word. He knew the horses as if they were his own children, though Jelena had never understood his connection with them.

She heard the quick stifling of breath as the riders and sentries waited, the snick of arrows notched, the hum of bows pulled taut. Even without looking for him, she knew a helper stood by the bell mounted at the side of the main hall, ready to raise the alarm at the first indication of trouble.

The horse and rider moved within arrow range, the rider failing to follow the protocol and hail the sentries. The sentries stood at guard but held still. The riders kept the target in range but waited for the command. The air thrummed with tension as the horse approached.

“It's the trader,” the sentry said in relief, reaching forward to pull the gate open.

Michael stilled her movement with a hand on her forearm. “Wait.”

The horse and rider came closer. In the light that spilled from Michael's lantern, Jelena could see the rider swaying unsteadily in the saddle. She bit back her fear, setting her jaw against it.

“In the name of all that's good,” the sentry nearest her said, turning away from the sight as the horse stopped at the gate and blew out an impatient breath.

“Wolves,” the other sentry said, his hands shaking as he opened the gate to let the horse and its grisly burden through.

Jelena caught a glimpse of the man slumped over the horse's neck, his torn flesh gaping open, blood still dripping from the wounds. She wheeled and ran to the main hall. He must have help. That terrible mauling — it was the trader, he was her friend — she must find the physician. Her thoughts tumbled together and she forced herself to focus on one thought to the exclusion of all others. She must find the physician.

Her boots skidded in the hard-packed dirt as she flung open the door to the infirmary that abutted the main hall. He was there, where she had expected to find him. Peter, a little trueborn boy, was suffering slowly and painfully of lockjaw fever and it tormented the physician that he didn't have the medicines to give the child ease, so he sat by the boy's bedside, hour after hour, more vigilant than the child's own parents.

She grabbed the physician's hand, her own hands shaking, and she must have communicated her horror because he clasped her shoulder, then headed toward the courtyard to see what he could do. Heart pounding, she raced after him, arriving in the courtyard steps behind him. Michael and the sentry gently lifted the trader from his saddle, placing him on the ground and stepping back to let the physician do his work.

Jelena caught another glimpse of the torn body and turned away, pressing one palm against the tightness in her chest and one against the nausea in her belly. The trader had charmed her and told her lies about his pastself and accepted her. He had liked her just as she was, not caring what she might have been or what she might become. To have met a death like this —

“Wolves,” the sentry said again. “We heard them sneaking around tonight.” The other sentry nodded in agreement. He gave Jelena a glance; he had heard her welcoming howl. Then he met Michael's steady gaze and refrained from accusing her.

“Not wolves,” Jelena said, struggling for breath. “They didn't do this.” She wrapped her arms around her trembling body. The wolves would never do this … would they? What did she really know about the creatures on the other side of the fence? She had never been on the other side of the fence. Her instinct told her the wolves would not harm the people. Not the trader, anyway, who had sense enough not to threaten or provoke a wild animal. But instinct wasn't knowledge, and as she glanced at the faces of the people surrounding her, her shoulders slumped and she knew they would never listen to her.

Michael crouched near the trader's body, his arms crossed over one bent knee. He reached forward and moved one of the man's arms, as if to make sure he saw the entire graphic spectacle, the gaping wounds, the flesh torn away, as if he must commit it to memory. Jelena turned away and closed her eyes. The image of the trader's suffering was already seared into her mind's eye. She would never forget it.

The physician knelt next to Michael, who stood to make way for him. Jelena knew the trader was dead but somehow she had hoped that the physician would prove her wrong. She had never seen a miracle but she wasn't unwilling to believe in them. She watched, eyes stinging. The physician conducted a brief examination. That he didn't even try to revive the trader or bind his wounds made the grief tear at her throat.

Within a few minutes, a silent crowd had gathered, staring aghast at the dead man on the ground. All laughter and merriment fled. The people kept a respectful distance, and they had pain, not curiosity, in their eyes. It was their pain Michael addressed when the physician got to his feet and shook his head.

“This is the Way,” Michael said. “Death follows life. The cycle of celebration and sorrow. Today we weep over the loss of a loved one who has gone beyond self to the world we may not know.”

The assembled villagers bowed their heads at his words. Then curiosity overcame pain and someone asked, “What happened?”

“Wolves,” Michael said.

Someone made a shocked sound of dismay, but none seemed to question what Michael said. Jelena drew her breath to protest but Michael turned his river-blue gaze to meet hers. Their eyes locked. The challenge in his eyes was determined and stubborn. Why did he want to blame the wolves for this attack? They had not done it. Her jaw tightened but Jelena turned away first. What difference did it make? When had anyone ever heard her voice?

The crowd began to move, some of the villagers stepping forward to pick up the trader and carry him to the infirmary where he would await the rites, the weavers to prepare the shroud he would be burned in, the potters to throw the urn he would be buried in, the others to curl sleepless in their beds and remember the kindnesses of their best friend.

For a long time, Jelena stood in the courtyard and wondered what — and who — would be next.

• • •

“It wasn't wolves,” Jelena said as she walked up the porch steps, she and Michael alone for the first time in hours. To Jelena it felt like days.

“What do you want me to say?” Michael asked. The fatigue and strain of the evening was evident in his tone, still patient but tightly controlled, verging on quarrelsome.

Jelena shook her head impatiently. She didn't want him to say words that she supplied him with. Why did he try to put her off that way? Why couldn't he have this conversation with her? Was it because he didn't take her seriously enough? She was still newlyborn, despite all the years that had passed. She would never be someone he took seriously. He would never imagine her as his equal, his partner. It would simply never occur to him. The knowledge sliced at her heart. She took a deep, trembling breath; he must never know what she wished. She could not bear it if he found out her secret. He would pity her for it.

The floor creaked beneath their feet as they entered the main hall. Matilda, the night-keeper, scurried by, saying hurriedly to them as she passed, “The fourth hour of night, already.” She had a strained expression on her face as she headed out the door to alert the sentries.

Night-keeper and day-keeper were tasks the unawakened performed admirably and the people wanted their unawakened to feel valued. They had all heard stories that other tribes — out there beyond the protection of the trees — exiled their unawakened. How long could the unawakened last beyond the range of the gathering fire? They condemned the unawakened to death. How much more compassionate were the people.

“We can't go on like this, Michael.” Jelena meant
we
in myriad meanings, but mostly she meant
you and I
.

“What choice have we?” he asked as he pushed open the slatted door that led to their quarters. Like the hanging half doors the desert tribes used, the Wudu-faesten's slatted doors offered privacy while allowing cooler, circulating air to reach them. Jelena and Michael often kept the door open this time of year, to tempt any stray breeze into the space. Some of the other newlyborn and their protectors argued over this — door open or closed — but Michael and Jelena never had.

They never argued over anything, except the fact that she was unawakened and thought he should leave her to perform more important tasks. Even then it couldn't really be called arguing. Jelena likened it to trying to persuade the Stone Mountains to listen to her side of the story. One might hear the echo of one's own words, but the mountains stood there, impenetrable and unmoving.

She wanted to tell him about the wolves and what they meant to her, and how much she wanted to be his lover, his partner, how desperately she longed to be free of the protection of the trees and to venture beyond the fence. But her words would only alarm him. She sighed. It was not just one secret she kept, was it?

A curtain — thin netting in the summer, heavy brocade in the winter — separated her small sleeping alcove from the main room where he slept and where they dressed and had their private time. She had embroidered the sides and hem of the curtain with symbols that no one understood, thick black runes that persisted in her mind without meaning. She had transferred them to the curtain because she thought they might serve as some sort of talisman. That one day they would evoke a memory, true and important, and she would awaken then and take her rightful place in their society.

In her mind, the runes were the source of power and fearlessness, although she didn't know why. The thick embroidery made the netting hang in stiff folds that rustled when she touched it. But it elicited no memory, no matter how long she stared at it each night.

As she pushed the curtain aside, she turned to Michael and said, “Good night,” then bowed to him as she did every night, formally and without thought. She slipped behind the curtain, which whispered into place, blocking him from view. If only she could draw a curtain in her mind as easily.