The Wind-Witch (44 page)

He wasn’t saying anything, so she abandoned the jesting and faltered uncertainly on. “And then later, you could go on to Kovelir, if you still wanted to . . . if you’d only stay here awhile . . .” She shut her eyes and felt his wrist pull free of her grasp. Her throat hurt her again, full of begging words, but she couldn’t hold onto him as if she were an iron-jawed trap, not even for love of him, not even if she died of it—she couldn’t make him tear free, the way trapped wolves did.

“Would a lifetime be long enough?” And of a sudden he was nuzzling into her hair, his arms going around her, his lips brushing her ear. “Wolves take mates for life. Could you bear that, Lady? I’m no wizard and I’m no farmer, and there’s no one would ever tell you this was a good idea . . .”

Druyan felt her world open wide with joy, all her senses expanding as they had the night he’d sung her into the wolf-form with him, to save her life. She could scent every shore the tickling breeze had touched, number the fragrant fruits in the orchard with her eyes closed, hear skylarks singing half a league off. His lips touched hers, and all at once Druyan’s heart was brimful of moonlight. Her arms dared now to slide around Kellis, and she put her unequal hands into his hair. It felt as shaggy as it looked, like a wolf’s pelt. “You can change your shape, but not your heart,” she said, nestling her head against his shoulder. “I can bear anything, so long as that’s true. Can
you
bear to take an eight-fingered witch to wife?”

“Trust me,” Kellis said, and meant it. He hunted for her lips again, evidently with his eyes shut, for he roved all over her face before he ran down his quarry at last.

The wind dropped a shower of raindrops onto them from the branches overhead. Rook padded half a dozen steps and rested her nose gently against Kellis’ leg. Meddy sat, sighed, and thumped her tail once with relief.