The Gray Wolf Throne (17 page)

“He’s hurt!” one said, in Clan.

“So is she!”

“who are they?”

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He heard dogs barking and more excited chatter. A wave of dizziness rolled over him, then the voices of a gathering crowd.

“willo,” he whispered. “need willo.”

Then three Demonai warriors stepped out onto the trail between Han and the small pack of children and dogs. They were armed with longbows, arrows nocked, but aimed at the ground, dressed in the sunlight and shadow Demonai clothing. The tall-est warrior reached up, grabbing for ragger’s bridle, but ragger showed his teeth and reared up, nearly dumping Han and the girl onto the ground. The Demonai backed off quickly.

“Stay off,” Han said, his mouth and tongue so numb he was scarcely understandable. “Get out of my way.”

“what have you done to that girl, jinxflinger?” the Demonai demanded. “Let her go.”

what he was saying didn’t make sense, but Han was too far gone to sort it out. He had a plan. He’d practiced it all the way there, repeated the message over and over in his mind.

“willo,” he croaked. “need willo. The girl is poisoned.” rebecca’s head drooped like a flower on a long stem, her face buried against his coat.

The Demonai raised their bows. “keep your hands where we can see them,” the tall warrior said. “Let the girl go.”

“Can’t,” Han whispered. “She’ll die. where’s willo?” The warriors looked at each other as if this were a hard question.

“where is willo?” Han shouted, losing patience. “The girl is dying. Tell me where she is or i’ll ride right over you.” The children broke and ran toward camp as if chased by demons.

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“Give her to us,” the tall warrior said. “we’ll take her to willo.”

Han shook his head stubbornly. He had a plan, and this wasn’t it. “where’s willo?”

The warriors exchanged glances again.

“This way,” one of the Demonai said. “Follow us.” Two of them began walking down the trail ahead away from Han, while the tall one stood aside, his bow slack in his hands.

Han urged ragger forward at a walk. They walked past the tall warrior. in his peripheral vision, Han saw the warrior raise his bow, take careful aim. But Han’s muddled mind could not process this, could not divine the significance.

“no!” someone shouted. “Stop! Don’t shoot! it’s Hunts Alone!”

Han looked up to see willo flying toward them, moccasins flashing in and out of the snow, hair streaming out behind her.

She wore white—full skirts, a long deerskin tunic overtop, not even a coat.

Huh, Han thought hazily. white was the color of mourning in the camps. Had somebody died?

She was trailed by a dozen young children.

Han’s vision swam, and willo became a smear of motion. He swayed, shaking his head to clear it, and then she was right in front of him.

willo extended her hand and took hold of ragger’s bridle, murmuring a greeting to him. instead of laying back his ears and baring his teeth, the gelding snuffled gently at her hand.

willo looked up at Han. “what’s the matter, Hunts Alone?” she asked. “what’s happened?”

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Beyond her, like an echo, he could hear the children chattering in Clan.

“it’s Hunts Alone!”

“Hunts Alone? He looks different.”

“His hair’s the same.”

“what’s that he’s got around his neck?”

“is he sick?”

“who’s that girl?”

willo put her hand on his arm, and power flowed into him, steadying him, clearing his head enough to speak.

Han forced the words past his numb lips. “This girl’s been poisoned, willo. An arrow-point daub, and the tip’s still in her.”

“whose?” She snapped out the question, but he understood.

“not . . . not clan. S . . . soldiers. Upland soldiers, i believe. i don’t know what poisons they use.”

“who is she?” willo asked, craning her neck, trying to get a look at rebecca’s face.

“r-rebecca Morley. She lives in the Vale, but she has clan blood.” Maybe willo wouldn’t treat a flatlander.

The matriarch kept her hand on his arm. Han had the odd sense that her touch was all that was keeping him upright. She was looking at him oddly. “Did you take an arrow also?” He shook his head. “i . . . i tried to save her. But i’m no healer.”

“you used high magic?”

Han nodded. “i tried.” He waved his hand dispiritedly.

“Didn’t work. i . . .”

Han felt the flow of energy change, filling some void within him. “oh,” willo breathed, her eyes going wide and pooling 142

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with tears. “oh, Hunts Alone . . .” Her voice broke.

“i’m sorry,” he said. Saliva seemed to be building up in his mouth, and he had no way to swallow it. His body no longer reliably followed his commands.

Breathe.

“wil you give the girl to me?” she said. “wil you let me try?” He nodded, dizzy with relief. “please, willo. please. Save her.

it doesn’t matter . . . what happens to me.”

“release her,” willo said. “Let go of your amulet and release her to me.”

in his head, Han could hear Crow shouting in his ear. He ignored it. He released his death grip on the amulet.

willo extended her arms, and Han leaned forward, easing the girl into them. willo looked down into rebecca’s face and gasped, going pale under her bronze skin. “Blood of Hanalea!” she whispered.

Han went cold with dread. was she dead? was rebecca already dead? was he too late after all? Had he carried a dead body all the way to Marisa pines?

willo looked up at the gawking Demonai. “Bring Hunts Alone to the Matriarch Lodge,” she ordered. “Quickly now. And find elena
Cennestre
. i need help.”

“willo!” Han called, but she was already away, striding toward the lodge with rebecca limp in her arms. The bowmen gripped his arms, pulling him from his horse, and though he tried, he couldn’t keep his seat, and he fell forward into blackness.

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Secrets

Revealed

raisa woke to the sound of women’s voices and the aroma of food cooking slow. For a while she only listened and breathed, afraid to open her eyes. Her entire body tingled and burned, as if pins and needles were being driven into her skin. it was much like the sensation of blood returning to fingers and toes after a day out in the cold. Hearing, smell, touch, taste: each was exquisitely sensitive to her surroundings. even the quiet conversation clamored in her ears.

The women spoke the upland dialect. She heard other familiar sounds: the whirr of a spinning wheel, the thump of the overhead beater on a loom, the hiss of flames on the nearby hearth. raisa knew where she was before she opened her eyes—in one of the upland clan lodges.

She lay sprawled on her stomach on a deep feather bed under a light blanket, her sleeping bench close to the fire. She wore a loose garment, a white flax tunic that tied at the neck. A dull pain 144

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in her back drew her attention, insistent as a toothache. Gingerly, she slid her hand into her neckline and explored the area with her fingers, encountering layers of bandages.

She must be at Marisa pines. How had she come there? it was like opening a book at random, or walking into the middle of a scene in a play without knowing what had come before.

it didn’t matter, she thought, closing her eyes. All would be well now. She could finally rest after her long struggle to stay alive. Somebody else could take responsibility. She would tell her mother what had happened, and Marianna and Averill would do something about it. with that reassuring thought, she drifted back into a more peaceful sleep.

when she woke again, it was late afternoon or early evening.

Light leaked in around the doors and windows, but lanterns had already been kindled against the encroaching darkness.

A disturbing image surfaced: Captain Byrne on his face in the trail, his blood black against snow, his back bristling with arrows.

other memories elbowed forward. Mac Gillen, the renegade officer who’d carried her off, had, in a peculiar twist of fate, saved her life. She’d killed him and had taken his horse. But they’d waited for her at the pass and chased her down the long slope into a canyon, until a bolt had flung her from her horse. She’d managed to kill one more, but the poison was spreading, she was growing weak, and they were closing in. And then . . .

when she closed her eyes, she saw a familiar face, lit by torchlight, sculpted by pain, a landscape of high cheekbones, long straight nose, intense blue eyes, framed by fair hair.

Han Alister. He’d intruded into her personal nightmare somehow. it didn’t make any sense. She’d left Han back in oden’s Ford.

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As far as she knew, he was still there, thinking she’d abandoned him.

She shivered, remembering the burn of his hands against the cold, spreading stain of poison, and the power that bled into her, thawing the frozen places.

She’d fought with him. She’d tried to escape into oblivion, but he’d followed her, breached her defenses, and . . . and what?

They’d intertwined, joined together like fire and ice, and he’d sheltered her from the insidious cold.

She’d never felt safer—she’d never felt more alive than when she lay dying in Han Alister’s arms.

There was something—something about her ring. He’d taken her ring from her. She lifted her hands, and the wolf ring was right where it belonged, on the forefinger of her right hand.

So maybe it
had
been a dream, she thought, disappointed.

She’d meant to die with his face before her, and she’d hallucinated the rest.

That should have been reassuring, but all she knew was that now she felt empty. Bereft. Alone as she’d never been before.

There was something else—something lurking in the back of her mind. Something she didn’t want to remember.

raisa pushed up on her elbows, suddenly aware of a raging thirst and a crashingly bad headache. The women by the fire must have been watching, because two of them rose, setting aside their needlework, and came and knelt next to the pallet.

one of them was her grandmother, elena Demonai, Matriarch of Demonai Camp. The other was willo watersong, healer and Matriarch of Marisa pines Camp. raisa had met her at the renam-ings and other feast days during her time fostering at Demonai.

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Both women were dressed in white—white woolen shawls and white-cured deerskin shirts and long full skirts. worry shivered down raisa’s backbone. white was the color of mourning among the clans.

“Granddaughter, it’s good to see you open your eyes,” elena said. “you’ve slept for three days.”

willo inclined her head and made the sign of the Maker.

“Briar rose, welcome to our fire. please share all that we have.” The upland greeting to the guest.

“i’m thirsty,” raisa whispered.

willo maneuvered raisa into a sitting position, supporting her with an arm about her shoulders. elena raised a cup of water to raisa’s lips.

She took a long swallow. it burned her lips and tongue and scalded her throat, bringing tears to her eyes. She shook her head, refusing more. “it’s too hot!”

willo and elena looked at each other, and both nodded.

“it’s the poison,” willo said. “it confuses the nerves in those who survive. Hot things seem cold, and cold hot. Some say it’s like being set aflame.”

“Do you know what it is? The poison, i mean.” raisa looked from willo to elena.

“it’s made from tree fungus,” willo said. “it grows on the north side of slopes. we use it sometimes to harvest fish for smoking.”

elena offered the cup again, and raisa did her best to drink, ignoring her reverberating nerves. Afterward, she ran her tongue experimentally over her lips, and was surprised to find them un blistered. “How long . . . how long does this last?” 147

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willo shrugged. “Hard to say. Most don’t survive.” elena set aside the cup when it was clear that raisa would drink no more. Her grandmother, who was always so calm, seemed twitchy and nervous.

“Let me take a look at your wound, as long as you’re awake,” willo suggested. “i’ve packed it with snakebite root, though it’s a bit late to draw the poison.”

obediently, raisa lay down on her stomach, cradling her face on her arms. willo drew up her shirt and cut the bandage away from her wound. elena fetched a pot of hot water from the fire.

“Can you tell us what happened?” elena asked, sitting down next to her again. Her grandmother was always one to go straight to the point. “who attacked you?”

“only if you feel up to talking about it, your Highness,” willo murmured.

raisa fought back a prickle of unease. This was her grandmother, after all, and willo was known throughout the Spirits as a gifted healer. Surely she could trust them. She’d always felt safe and cared for in the upland camps, away from the politics at court.

yet she felt besieged by enemies—so much of what she had once believed had turned out to be false.

“Those who attacked me were renegade members of the Queen’s Guard,” raisa said finally. “The only one of them i knew was Mac Gillen, and he is dead.” She drew a sharp breath, gritting her teeth as willo scraped the poultice away from her wound. “This is the second time my own guard has betrayed me.

They came after us before, on the way to oden’s Ford. That was Gillen’s doing too, though he wasn’t actually there.” elena nodded. “nightwalker said as much.”

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