Mistwood (9 page)

That
same night Isabel stole a horse and rode back to her forest.

It was ridiculously easy. Nobody stopped her or questioned her. One of the stableboys even saddled the horse for her. She considered stopping off in the kitchens and asking for food, but decided against it. The Shifter could fend for herself. Change into a hawk or wolf and hunt for dinner, if she had to….

The prey making that one fatal mistake. The lunge, and the crack of bone. Something warm and limp between her jaws…

Or if she wanted to.

She rode out through the castle’s southern gate, hooves clattering on cobblestones, and spurred the horse into a gallop as soon as she left the city behind.

It was a moonless night too dark for shadows, the stars a swirl of light against an ocean of black. The galloping was easier than before but still not comfortable; even so, she didn’t slacken the pace, shifting the soreness away every half hour or so. Her horse became difficult about ten miles from the woods, and when they reached the first line of trees, he flatly refused to move on. Isabel realized that the horses Rokan had chosen for his journey to summon her must have been battle-trained; she was riding a palfrey, and no amount of kicking or urging would convince him to move forward. She slipped out of the saddle, and the horse was gone before she could so much as slap his hindquarters, his hooves raising black wraiths of dust as he ran.

She watched him go, refusing to imagine that she was still on his back, then turned resolutely and faced the trees. She understood the horse’s reluctance. They seemed aloof and menacing, living creatures guarding their domain, hostile to any stranger who would dare walk between them.

But not hostile to me, Isabel thought forcefully. These woods are
mine
.

It sounded good. But the trees didn’t look any different.

There you had the power of the Mistwood to draw upon
, Ven’s voice whispered in her mind.
Maybe that makes a difference
.

Maybe it did. Here in her woods, before Rokan came for her, she had known what she was. Had known how to
be
what she was, shifting her body as easily as fog, never staying in one shape long enough to be confused by it.

The power of the Mistwood to draw upon…

Isabel swallowed hard and walked between the trees.

On the third day they came searching for her.

She was still human. She had not tried to shift; as soon as she entered the woods, the need to do so left her. She did not have to prove what she was. The forest accepted her, knew her: she was the Shifter. She would shift when there was a reason to, not before. She drank from a brook that flowed by a sunlit meadow and soaked in the mist that rolled between the trees and didn’t feel the need to eat.

She knew every inch of the forest, every narrow path that twisted and wound its way beneath the silver branches, and this time her ankle wasn’t hurt. This time—she admitted it, finally—she did not want to be found. She waited until the pounding hooves were so close that she could hear the twigs cracking beneath them, and then she shifted.

It was so easy, like mist swirling into a different form. She flapped her wings and rose into the treetops as the horses came thundering into the small clearing.

She should have shifted into a hawk, caught an updraft, and soared away. They were nothing to her, the riders of the horses; even the one in the lead, with his angular jaw and determined dark eyes. She was merely curious, and that was her mistake. The sparrow perched on the lowest branch of a maple tree and watched.

The second rider pulled off her hood. Blond hair spilled over her black cloak, obscuring for a moment the fury on her face. “Well? Why are we stopping? To give her a perfect target?”

“Be quiet, Clarisse. I’m trying to listen.”

“For what? You’ll be dead before you hear anything.”

“She’s not going to try to kill us.”

“That’s right. She’s going to succeed.”

“Would you be quiet?”

“It’s obviously not a good idea. I was quiet when you first came up with the whole Shifter idea, and you see what came of that.”

Rokan turned and stared at her. “That was
quiet
?”

“For her it was,” Will said. “Can’t the two of you stop? If the Shifter
is
watching us, I’m sure she’s greatly amused.”

The Shifter was not amused. She was disturbed. On the other side of the clearing someone was moving closer, a slim, dark shape that cast jagged shadows on the underbrush.

There was no reason she should care. These weren’t the people she was meant to protect. They had fooled her into thinking they were, even after she should have known better, but that didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t have to care about what happened to them.

She didn’t have to care about what happened to anyone.

“Well, I’m glad someone is amused,” Clarisse said. “Did I mention that I am not having fun at all?”

“I think I picked up on that,” Rokan said.

“How perceptive of you.”

Something glinted through the trees. The sparrow became a hawk, and the hawk’s sharper eyesight saw the knife in the man’s hand. He was creeping closer. The mist rose through the ferns like tiny feathers and swirled away from his movements.

“Did you hear something?” Rokan asked.

“No. I don’t know what you’re listening for. Mist can move without making any noise.”

The man had risen into a half-crouch. He flipped the knife to hold it by its blade.

“She might not be mist.”

“Right. She might be fog, or a bird, or a rat, or one of a hundred other things you wouldn’t be able to hear. This is a waste of time. You won’t find her unless she wants you to find her, and if she does, she’ll just come back to the castle and—”

The man raised his arm to throw, and suddenly the hawk was a girl and the girl was screaming, “Watch out!”

Rokan turned—toward her, not toward the knife. Isabel half-leaped, half-fell through the air, knocking him off his horse. The knife hit her instead, blade first.

She turned into mist as it pierced her skin. The knife flew through her body and stuck, hilt quivering, in the trunk of the tree she had been watching from.

Rokan grunted as he landed on the ground with Isabel’s hazy outline on top of him. Before he could even lift his head she was gone, racing through the underbrush, her paws digging into the earth and her sharp wolf’s nostrils making sight all but unnecessary.

She caught the would-be assassin before he had gone thirty yards, circling around to cut him off, her ears laid back. He didn’t try to get by her, but stood and stared at her, his eyes afraid but direct. The wolf became a girl, and Isabel crossed her arms.

“That was foolish,” she said. “In the Shifter’s forest itself? Did you think you would get away with it?”

“I’ve been waiting for him to come back here,” the young man said. “I didn’t think you would protect him.”

He was tall and thin, with a scruffy, sharp-jawed face and dark blue eyes. She guessed he was about the same age as Rokan, but his gauntness made him appear older. He was trembling—not that she needed to see that, the wolf smelled his fear—but his face was expressionless, and his eyes were trained directly on her.

“Why not?” Isabel said. “I’ve protected him before, haven’t I?”

“But you left the castle. You must know the truth now.”

“I knew the truth then.”

He flinched. “The Shifter is supposed to be loyal.”

“I am the Shifter.” That was becoming a very useful line, even if she only half-believed it herself.

“The Shifter is the protector of the royal family.
You
must be an imposter.”

She dropped her arms to her side and stepped toward him. “Do you need me to turn wolf again to convince you?”

He tensed, but he didn’t step back. “Would you?”

She smiled, taking another step. “No.”

“No, of course not. You never would.”

That stopped her in her tracks. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you know me?”

She stared at him.

“You were there when they came for us.
His
father’s soldiers. You tried to protect me and my sister.”

Isabel shifted her hands into hands that wouldn’t shake, her expression into blankness. “Is this some sort of trick?”

“I swear it’s not.” He leaned forward, legs still poised to leap. “You got me out. You didn’t fail. There’s still a royal family for you to protect. You don’t have to serve those imposters.”

She should have stayed a bird. She should have stayed away. Isabel bit back a whimper and said, “I don’t—”

“Please!” He swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving her face. “You know me. You saved my life.”

She crouched, curling her lips in a wolflike snarl. But he didn’t run. He didn’t even flinch. “You have to stop them. You have to kill
him
.” She had never known a word could contain such hatred. “You’re the Shifter. You must know which one of us is truly meant to be king.”

“Isabel?” Rokan called. The mist muffled his voice, but it didn’t sound like he was far.

The would-be assassin tensed. His eyes moved from hers for the first time, to search the trees. “You can’t give me to him.”

Isabel looked away.

“Isabel?” Rokan shouted. Twigs crackled.

“Come with me,” the stranger said urgently. “You’re my Shifter.”

“Isabel?”

“Go,” Isabel said, almost spitting the word out.

He stepped toward her. “You—”

“No.
Go
.”

For a moment he hesitated. Then, with a quick glance back at the mist-veiled trees behind him, he dodged around her and ran.

A moment later Rokan appeared, his face smudged with dirt and dried brown leaves clinging to his hair. He took in her lone, still figure with a glance that was first relieved, then puzzled.

“Where is he?”

“He disappeared,” Isabel said. “Sorcery.”

Rokan swore. “Are you all right?”

She gave him a withering look. “Of course I’m all right.”

“You’re bleeding.”

She was. There was blood streaked over her right elbow, crisscrossing its way down her arm. The knife must have hit her a moment before she turned to mist, sliced through some skin. Absently she shifted her arm, and the gash closed.

Rokan had been reaching for her arm, his eyes narrowed in concern. He stopped in mid-motion, flushed, and dropped his upraised hand. After a moment of hesitation, he said, “Did you see him?”

She knew what the hesitation meant. So he had decided not to question her disappearance, had he?
Wise move, Prince. You might not like what you hear.
“Briefly. Tall, dark hair, large eyes.”

“Large eyes,” Clarisse said, emerging from the trees behind her brother. Mist swirled away from her movements. “That’s a useful piece of description. I’m glad you caught it.”

Isabel didn’t even bother to acknowledge her. A moment later Will stepped up beside Clarisse and blurted, “Why are you here?”

So much for tactfully ignoring the situation. Isabel shrugged and said, “I had to come back here. I had been away too long.”

“I don’t suppose,” Clarisse said, reaching up to extract some twigs from her hair, “that it occurred to you to let us know where you were going?”

“No,” Isabel said, “it didn’t.”

There was a long silence. Rokan finally came closer to Isabel, leaves crackling under his feet. “We were worried about you,” he said.

“Worried about me,” Isabel said, “or about what I was doing?”

Rokan’s brow furrowed. He held her gaze until Isabel stepped back, feeling a need to defend herself, not quite sure against what.

“I’m your Shifter,” she said. The possessive felt strange on her tongue; she had just heard the assassin use it, but it had never before occurred to her. Had there ever been competing claims on a Shifter?
No, of course not; that’s what the Shifter is there to prevent.
“But I am not your slave. What I do is of no concern to you.”

“I was worried,” Rokan said, his voice tight, “about you.”

He sounded like he meant it. But she wanted him to mean it, so how would she know if he was lying? She half-turned away, shrugging one shoulder dismissively. “Why? I can’t be hurt.”

“You were hurt once,” Rokan said almost angrily, “and you fled to your woods. Here you are again. What am I supposed to think?”

“Whatever you want,” Isabel said. “But the only thing that can hurt me is something that hurts you.”

He blinked at her, then took a deep breath. “All right. Are you ready to go back yet? You can ride behind me—”

“I don’t need to ride,” Isabel said.

Late that night the royal trio returned riding three very spooked horses. About fifty feet behind them loped a lean, gray-white wolf.

The
rain started two days later and didn’t stop for a week. Relentless and rhythmic, it hammered on the stone walls and rooftops of the castle. Every time the Shifter passed a window, she saw nothing but heavy, streaking darkness, occasionally illuminated by a brief flash of lightning or punctuated by a rumble of thunder. It made her fur bristle, so she stayed away from windows.

The wolf did not like being cooped up indoors. The castle was too cold and sharp, too full of humans and noise. She was on edge, restless and snappy, and the feeling only went away when she was near her prince. Then her edge had a purpose, and her wariness an outlet.

She followed him everywhere, prowling easily and silently at his heels. The other members of the court gave her a wide berth. Isabel neither noticed nor cared—until she realized, one day as she sat at Rokan’s feet in the private audience chamber, that Clarisse was afraid of her. She rose to her feet and padded over to the princess, who sat in a carefully relaxed pose on the couch, hands open and eyes half-closed. It was a remarkable performance, but wolves could smell fear.

Isabel stood for a moment in front of Clarisse. Then she snarled and leaped.

Clarisse screamed and rolled off the couch, scraping her hip over the armrest—which had to hurt—and landing in a heap on the floor, gasping and scrambling away. Her heel caught in her gown; she kicked, it ripped, and a swath of yellow cloth fluttered away from her foot. The wolf landed lightly on the couch, turned around, and sat neatly down. She panted at Clarisse, her tongue lolling out.

Will was helpless with laughter. Rokan was trying hard to keep a straight face, but snickers kept escaping. Clarisse got to her feet and glared at Isabel, her face red.

“Bitch!”

“Under the circumstances,” Rokan commented in an almost steady voice, “that’s really just a statement of fact, you know.”

Clarisse turned her glare on him, and Rokan lost control, flopping over on the cushioned bench. Clarisse stood for a moment, breathing hard. Then she reached down, gathered up the trailing fabric from her gown, and stalked out of the room.

“That was marvelous,” Rokan gasped, sitting up. There were tears in his eyes. “You deserve a reward. A steak, or—or something. Diamonds, when you turn human. None of the legends said the Shifter had a sense of humor!”

Isabel tried to smirk, discovered that wolves couldn’t, and shifted. Still wearing the gray riding outfit she had put on two weeks ago, she crossed her legs and lifted her eyebrows. “Legends can be incomplete.”

“So they can.” Rokan laughed again, but less easily this time. He straightened and rubbed one hand on the armrest of the couch, not quite meeting her eyes. He had been more comfortable with her when she was a wolf.

Isabel had also been more comfortable with herself when she was a wolf. Then she had known what she was doing—protecting Rokan—and it hadn’t mattered why. She stretched her arms and shifted back.

Except she didn’t.

At first startled, then furious, she tried again and again. Nothing happened. Her legs remained legs, ridiculously weak and furless; her face felt flat and cold, her body ungainly. She drew her lips back in fury.

“Isabel?” Rokan said, distinctly uneasy now.

Humans couldn’t draw their lips back; it would make them look funny. Isabel took a deep breath and pressed her lips together.

“Sorry,” she said, very glad that Clarisse had already left the room. “Sometimes it takes a second for me to get used to a new shape.” She sat up straight and almost fell off the couch; her balance was different without a tail. “I like being a wolf. But I think the Lady Isabel had better make an appearance at court again.”

Rokan bit his lower lip and glanced sideways at Will. “Uh—that won’t be necessary.”

Of course it wouldn’t. She had taken charge, that day when Daria disappeared, in a way no innocent noblewoman would have. And for days a wolf had been padding along at Rokan’s heels.

She tried to think of a way to hide the slip and couldn’t, so she ignored it instead. “How are they taking it?”

“Pretty well. I think a lot of them suspected. Many are pleased, because—” A barely discernable pause. “Because if it makes me safer, it makes the kingdom more stable.”

Because it lent legitimacy to the throne. Made him seem like a real king, even though he wasn’t.

You’re my Shifter.
She could still hear the intensity in that angry voice, see the sense of betrayal in those dark blue eyes. It was impossible to think he had been lying.

As a wolf, none of it had mattered. She had known she was loyal to Rokan, would have protected him with her life. That was the way it should be. She tried, one last futile time, to change back, and when nothing happened despair rose in her throat. What difference did it make whose Shifter she was, when she couldn’t be the Shifter at all?

Ven’s door was unlocked, but he wasn’t there. Isabel hesitated in the doorway, surveying the room. Ven’s scent filled the air, mingling with the dusty smell of books and the rotten tinge of potions. He had been here fairly recently. She realized that she was using a wolf’s sense of smell and sighed. Then she walked over to the table, where a book lay open.

A red-haired woman stared up at her from the page, large green eyes narrowed in a sharp, triangular face. Isabel flipped a page and met the gaze of a fat old woman with curling gray hair. The face was completely unfamiliar, but the eyes…. She frowned and turned the book over to read the title.

Portraits of the Shifter.

Isabel turned another page, then another. All of these women—a few men, too—were her. They were her as much as the familiar face she had been wearing for most of the past few weeks. She didn’t recognize any of them. A few were beautiful. Most were not. They were plain, inconspicuous—the types of people you wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t remember. Beauty had both its uses and its disadvantages. The Shifter used it only when it served her purpose. Some of the women were fat. Some were old.

They weren’t women at all. They were just masks. Isabel wondered if the old ones had felt pain in their bones, if the men had been stronger than the women. As a wolf, she had wanted to hunt. Her disguises always went more than skin deep.

Isabel continued leafing through the book. The eyes stared at her from the pages, calm and blank, revealing nothing. Nothing of who was behind the mask.

If anyone was.

Not any
one
. Anything. Fog and mist, emotionless, drifting…bound to a single purpose by a magical compulsion that forced her to take on form, to deal with…life.

Maybe she was nothing but the compulsion. Maybe the compulsion had formed even the fog.

She felt a burning at the back of her eyes. Which was ridiculous. The Shifter didn’t cry.

Tears falling, not leaving a mark like the blood, and that seemed wrong….

She slammed the book shut and tracked Ven’s scent to the one window in the cluttered room. When the trail kept going, she twisted around and saw the uneven stones on the outside of the tower, suddenly understanding where he was. There were spells it would be far too dangerous to practice in a small enclosed room, spells that, perhaps, he didn’t want Albin to find him working on. Spells having to do with her?

Isabel glanced down once at the dizzying drop into the courtyard below, then reached for the first stone and pulled herself up.

When she vaulted over the battlements and onto the roof several seconds later, she found Ven sitting cross-legged on the flat surface of the rooftop. Next to him lay an open book, a bowl full of foul-smelling liquid, and several glass vials. His eyes widened.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Isabel said.

“No. It’s not—I’m glad to see you.” He started to push himself off the ground, then changed his mind and merely closed the book.

Isabel turned her back on the eagerness in his eyes and leaned her arms against the slanted wall. The sun cast faint warmth on her neck and shoulders. She could see the trees on the hills to the south; when she tried, her eyesight became even sharper, and she could see every individual leaf, red or yellow or stubbornly green. The sky was white with fog that softened the edges of the hills—as if the mist from her woods was gathering force and coming for her. A bird swooped across her view, arced, and came to rest on a rooftop below.

“I saw your book,” she said.
“Portraits of the Shifter.”

She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the caution in his voice. “Did you recognize any of them? Of you, I mean?”

She hadn’t, but she didn’t say so. “I’m not wearing the bracelet in any of the portraits.”

She heard his indrawn breath and knew he was about to lie to her. She didn’t turn. He would be less guarded if she couldn’t see his face. “It hasn’t been used for years. It was part of the original spell that bound the Shifter in the first place.”

The bird took wing, wheeled once, and soared over the castle walls. Isabel watched it go. “Then why bring it out now?”

“After everything that had happened, Rokan didn’t know how far you had reverted to being wild. Part of its magic was that it would keep you from harming the prince.”

That
was
a lie. But so, Isabel realized suddenly, was everything she had been told about the bracelet. She lifted her arm, twisting her wrist so the white and red crystals lay flat against her skin. Pretty. She could still feel Rokan’s fingers on her wrist, deftly fastening the clasp. She liked the bracelet.

“That’s not why.” She spoke slowly, but without any doubt. “He thought it could
re
bind the Shifter. Create an allegiance to a new king, a new dynasty.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

“Fool. A
bracelet
?” She ran the fingers of her other hand along the tiny crystals. True, it had helped confuse her—but only because her jumbled memory had latched onto that one familiar thing. Focusing on the bracelet now, she could feel the tendrils of power clinging to it, thrumming with magic despite the centuries it had lain dormant.

“Fool,” she said again—but that wasn’t right. Rokan was no fool. She turned around and noted the whiteness around Ven’s lips. “Did you tell him it would work?”

Ven opened his mouth, then closed it.

A number of things were suddenly clear to Isabel. It had never made sense for Rokan to believe she wouldn’t find out the truth about his father. “Did you tell him it would make me forget my previous allegiance, and what happened last time I was here? That it would make me disregard the truth even if I did discover it?”

“I thought it…” He faltered under her gaze. “I thought it might.”

“And you wanted him to try. You wanted to see the Shifter.”

He bit his lip.

Isabel shook her head. She should have been disgusted by Ven’s disloyalty, by the way humans always placed their wants above their duties. Instead she was amused. Besides, by sorcerers’ reckoning, Ven had done the right thing by putting his studies first.

Not that there had been anything disinterested or scholarly about it. Her amusement faded, replaced by an embarrassment that was almost guilt. Ven had gone to such lengths to seek out a legend and instead found a damaged, faded version of what she was supposed to be.

“I told him what he wanted to hear,” Ven said. “He would have gone to get you no matter what I said.”

There was a moment of silence while Isabel turned that over in her mind. Then Ven added, almost in a whisper, “I’m glad you’re back.”

Isabel realized that it hadn’t even occurred to her to go tell him she was back. She hadn’t thought of him at all until she was in human form again. “I’m sorry—”

“No. I’m sorry.” He took a deep, shaky breath and got to his feet. “You left because of what I said. I shouldn’t have said it. I compared you to a legend and got angry at you because you’re not—”

“But I should be the legend.” She turned back toward the battlements, so it would be easier to say what she had to say. “If something inside me wants to be human, I have to root it out and kill it. I can’t protect Rokan this way.”

“Nothing inside you wants to be human. You were a wolf—”

“And now I’m not. And now that I’m back in this castle, I can’t shift back.” In the distance mist rolled and twisted through the trees, dimming the brilliant reds and yellows of their foliage. “I think it’s because there’s something human about the Shifter. I think maybe…maybe I was human before I ever was the Shifter.”

“No.”

Isabel turned to face him then. He didn’t want to hear this; not as much, she thought, as she didn’t want to say it. Too bad for both of them. “You’re the one who told me the origins of the Shifter are unknown. Maybe I’m not some ancient entity chained to the royal family. Maybe I was not found, but—created.”

“Isabel—”

“And maybe what they created me
from
,” Isabel finished, raising her voice, “was a human being!”

“It’s not true. Trust me, I’ve thought of it. All these problems aren’t your—”

“Of course they’re my fault! I’m not what I’m supposed to be!” She gripped the rough-hewn stone behind her. “He summoned me for his protection, and I can’t be what he needs me to be. I thought it might be because
he
’s not what he’s supposed to be, either—so I ran, just like I ran ten years ago—but then he was in danger and I couldn’t let him die. And once I had saved him, I couldn’t let him go back to the castle alone. I can’t help it, it’s what I am—what I’m supposed to be—what I
want
to be—”

She broke off, suddenly aware of how high her voice had risen. Ven was staring at her with wide, startled eyes, and a sudden rush of embarrassment flooded through her, hot and painful. The Shifter out of control, ranting like a mad-woman…she doubted there was precedent for
that
in any of Ven’s books.

“It’s all right,” Ven managed to say, though his voice sounded a bit strangled. He took a step toward her, half-lifting one hand to pat her on the shoulder. “It’s all right.”