Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

A large tub beckoned invitingly from within an arched doorway, but she knew she didn’t have time for that luxury. Besides, two baths in one week verged on decadence for someone who spent most of her time sleeping in bedrolls and tents.

She changed quickly, noting the blood stains on her soft leather pants. Whether the blood was hers or Skaravojen’s, she couldn’t tell, but it didn’t really matter. A week in the forest and they’d fade to match all the other stains, becoming indistinguishable from the blood of a hundred other creatures already soaked deep into the fabric. She’d have to replace the shirt the Keeper’s pet had shredded, though-while the borrowed tunic she’d worn after the attack was serviceable enough, the idea of walking around with a huge Flame on her chest did not appeal to her.

She glanced at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. Presentable, she decided, though some of her reddish-brown hair had escaped from the looping totem braids she wore and was busy curling itself into unruly spirals around her ears. With a disgusted grunt, she licked her fingers and tried to smooth the offending strands into submission, but without a comb to her name, she was fighting a losing battle. To think, some women actually paid to have their hair look like this!

As she tried to tuck the curls behind her ears, one of the braids came loose, unlooping itself to hang to the middle of her back. It was Javi’s braid, the one she’d dedicated to seeing him freed from prison. She looked forward to the day she could cut it off and toss it into the Thrane River.

She threaded the loose braid back through the knotty mass, reflecting that she looked a bit like a hairy medusa. With a laugh, she turned away from the mirror. She’d never been good at primping-the frills and fripperies that occupied the lives of so many young women were nothing but an annoyance to her. Perfume, jewelry, complicated skirts, they were all designed to do one thing-snare a mate. Thankfully, she was far more interested in catching animals.

And a killer.

A knock sounded at the door, and she crossed over a fine Brelish rug to answer it, her feet sinking into the plush weave with each step. She opened the door, expecting Liyam.

A young man stood there, resplendent in a tabard so white that it hurt her eyes. He was tall, almost a foot taller than her, and had dark brown hair, cut short, and a strong, aristocratic chin with a slight cleft. Handsome, even for a human. His tabard, embroidered with a single small silver flame over the left breast, was worn over a long-sleeved silvercloth shirt and gray leather pants like her own. A slender silver chain, the expensive sort often used by wealthy women for holding dainty charms, circled his throat and disappeared beneath his shirt. He wore knee-high black boots, and a longsword in a jeweled scabbard belted at his waist, its pommel a stylized silver wolf’s head with two rubies the size of grapes for eyes.

“Lady Irulan,” he said with a bow, “I am Andri Aeyliros. Her Holiness, Jaela Daran, has asked that I escort you to dinner.” As he inclined his head, the movement dislodged the necklace he wore, and the “charms” spilled out. A simple silver flame bracketed on either side by claws.

Shifter claws.

As she took Andri’s proffered arm, her mind and heart raced. Instead of the steward, the Keeper had sent a warrior, who, while clearly not one of the regular guards, still wore his sword in the Cathedral.

Not only a sword, but shifter claws .

Was he leading her to her death? Did the Keeper intend to betray her?

But why? And why like this? If Jaela Daran had wanted her out of the way, why not just have her imprisoned? After her abbreviated fight with Skaravojen, no one in Flamekeep would believe she hadn’t meant the Keeper harm. Not that Jaela needed a reason-if she decided Irulan was a threat, or an enemy of the Silver Flame, there would be thousands of faithful in the city ready and more than happy to tear her to shreds on the Keeper’s word alone. Or she could have just let Skaravojen finish the job.

No, it didn’t make sense. Why go through all the trouble of dressing her up and feeding her, if Jaela simply meant to have her killed? There must be something to this she wasn’t seeing.

Wary, but not willing to abandon her trust in the Keeper just yet, Irulan allowed Andri to lead her through the Cathedral to Jaela’s own private dining hall. After his initial introduction, the tall young man did not speak again, though Irulan could not help but notice the odd looks they received from guard and servant alike. Or, more accurately, the looks Andri received.

Swift recognition, followed by … what? Dislike, certainly, even disgust. Open hostility in some cases. And fear.

Who was this man Jaela had sent to be her escort?

Andri Aeyliros. She thought she recognized the name, though she had no great knowledge of the Cathedral’s inhabitants. Was he the son of a Cardinal?

She had no more chance to speculate as they arrived at their destination, a set of unguarded double doors. Andri released her arm to knock once, then pushed one of the doors open and stepped through. Irulan followed him, tensing. Was he leading her into an ambush?

The room was empty, save for a long table set for four. Closing the door behind them, Andri took her arm again and led her to the seat to the right of the table’s head, where she assumed the Keeper would be sitting. After holding her chair for her, a courtesy to which she was unaccustomed and that made her feel oddly embarrassed, he took his own seat across from her. The fourth place setting was to his left.

Liyam appeared as if summoned, bearing a crystal decanter of wine from which he poured them each a glass without asking. Aundairian Windshire, it changed colors as it filled the glass, from rose, to plum, to indigo, and finally to a deep red-black.

“Her Holiness will be with you shortly,” he announced, then promptly disappeared before either of them could ask any questions.

Irulan looked at her wine glass, the silver place setting with its crisp white linen napkin and more different-sized forks than she would have guessed existed, and the ornate Flamic candelabra that acted as a centerpiece. What was she doing here?

Saving Javi , she reminded herself sternly.

She glanced at the man across from her, but he seemed disinclined to conversation. She noticed, thankfully, that he’d tucked his necklace back under his shirt.

Aeyliros. She wondered again why the name was so familiar, and was actually on the verge of asking him, if for no other reason than simply to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled over them, when Jaela Daran entered the room unannounced through a servant’s door, Skaravojen at her heels.

Andri stood a fraction of a second more quickly than Irulan, and when they knelt, their foreheads touched the floor in unison.

“Please. If I’d wanted my dinner guests fawning over me, I would have dined with the Diet,” Jaela said as she walked over to stand in front of her chair. Her words were harsh, but her tone was gentle and amused, removing their sting.

As Irulan stood, Jaela greeted her warmly. “Irulan. Thank you for coming. I hope I will be able to help you.” She turned to Andri, who had not yet risen. “Oh, Andri,” she said softly, reaching out a hand to touch his head tenderly, as a mother would do to a beloved child. “It is enough. Get up.”

Andri stood-reluctantly, it seemed to Irulan.

“It will never be enough,” he replied morosely, moving to pull her chair out for her. When she was seated, Irulan and Andri sat as well.

Liyam appeared with wine and a platter of Karrnathi ved cheese, beesh berries and silverfruit. After setting the platter down and filling Jaela’s glass, he bent down to whisper quietly in her ear, stepping over Skaravojen’s bulk to do so. She said nothing, merely nodded, then dismissed him with a smile of thanks.