Gail Martin - The Sworn

Vigulf began to chant in the clipped, tonal language of the vyrkin . Although Jonmarc had no idea of the words, he guessed the meaning clearly enough. Vigulf was hallowing the space. But as Vigulf chanted, Jonmarc felt the air in the cave grow colder. Wraiths began to stream into the cavern from the passageways that led into darkness and to rise from the stacked skulls along the wall. Not quite solid but no mere illusion, the wraiths brushed past Jonmarc with a cold, moist feeling that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. He’d grown accustomed to ghosts after a year on the road with Tris Drayke, and Dark Haven had its share of resident and visible spirits. But these spirits felt different. Some of the spirits had the shape of men and women, while elsewhere ghost wolves glided through the assemblage. A few of the revenants had no real shape at all, and some manifested as a faint green glow.

The spirits apparently were expected. They moved among the crowd, gradually gathering around the betrothed couples. Whether the ghosts were direct ancestors or just spirits from the pack, Jonmarc had no way of knowing. When the ghosts were quiet, Vigulf stepped forward along with an assistant. He approached the first couple and removed a long rope tied with objects from the bag of ritual items his assistant carried. Jonmarc was close enough to see that the rope looked like felted fur or hair and that the objects knotted into it were bits of bone, tooth, and claw.

The first couple looked to be no older than their late teens. The girl had long, dark brown hair and a pretty, heart-shaped face. Her groom was a tall, thin young man with lank brown hair that fell into his face. He looked scared. There was something different about him, Jonmarc thought, whether it was his features or a slightly lighter hue to his complexion, but Jonmarc guessed that the young man was one of the pack outsiders Sior had mentioned. When Vigulf stepped toward the couple, one of the men who had been standing along the back of the chamber edged forward, making his way to the front of the crowd. One glance told Jonmarc that the man was closely related to the bride, a brother, most likely. He did not look pleased.

Vigulf withdrew a knife from his belt and took the first young woman’s hand, turning it face up. She flinched as he drew a thin cut down her palm. The cut beaded with blood. Vigulf lifted the woman’s palm and solemnly gave it to the young man who stood beside her. The groom murmured something in the vyrkin language and bent his head, licking the cut clean. Vigulf repeated the cutting ritual with the young man’s hand, and the woman did likewise. Then Vigulf took the rope and wrapped their hands together, raising and lowering his staff four times. The spirits began to stir, passing not just around the newly wed couple but ghosting through their bodies. Vigulf repeated the ritual with each of the couples until all six pairs had been joined.

The gathered vyrkin began to chant. While the chanting had a definite rhythm, it was unlike any human speech Jonmarc had heard. It seemed as if the entire assemblage was breathing as one, and although Jonmarc possessed no magic of his own, he could feel the power rising all around him.

A figure appeared from the depths of one of the corridors. Jonmarc was uncertain whether the figure was real or another spirit. It was taller than a man and wraith thin. It wore a mask over its head that looked like the head of a large, black wolf with eyes that glowed in the firelight. Its garment was made of many-hued wolf skins, some that looked recent and some that appeared quite old. The figure stopped just at the edge between light and darkness, and the room fell silent.

“I bless you, my children.” The voice that came from the figure sent a chill down Jonmarc’s back. Whatever-whoever-the thing was, the sound that came from its throat was not entirely human. The spirits glided across the cavern chamber to mass around the gaunt figure, and the vyrkin bowed deeply. Following suit, so did Gabriel and Jonmarc, although Jonmarc never took his eyes from the shadowed visitor. “Restore the pack. Replenish the blood. Remember our way.”

Jonmarc blinked and the figure vanished.

The figure’s sudden departure seemed to trigger something within the pack. Several of the vyrkin began to shift, changing into their wolf forms. But as the first couple turned around, a cry came from the crowd and the man Jonmarc guessed to be the bride’s brother launched himself at the groom, tackling the younger man and crashing to the ground.

Jonmarc started forward to break up the fight, but Gabriel caught his arm and gave a warning shake of the head. Vigulf stepped toward the two men who were struggling on the floor, and Jonmarc expected the shaman to intercede. Instead, he raised his staff and gave a deep-throated cry that sounded more wolf than human.

Like a blast of winter air, the spirits came rushing toward the struggling pair on the floor. They swarmed around the attacker, lifting him into the air although he was a muscular man. The spirits seemed to be entering the attacker’s body through his mouth, eyes, and ears, and from the silent scream that formed on the man’s face, it was obviously not a gentle possession.

Three of the vyrkin who were still in human form rushed forward to drag the injured groom away from his attacker. The bride stood transfixed, looking in horror between her wounded husband and the punishment her brother endured for the attack.

“What the Wolf Father has blessed, no one may challenge,” Vigulf warned. “Harm to one is harm to the pack. You must be made to remember.”

As abruptly as the spirits had seized the attacker, they now departed, streaming from his mouth. The man’s body twitched and his eyes were wide with terror. As the spirits rushed from him, he grew paler, finally collapsing on the ground. Sior tugged at Jonmarc’s sleeve as the rest of the assemblage began to file silently from the room, following the narrow pathway up to the forest.

No one spoke until they reached a clearing where a meal had been set out on large tables, which Jonmarc guessed had been brought from the manor house. That the menu consisted of nearly raw meat did not surprise him. To one side, Jonmarc saw a table by itself. It was set with a plate of food, a goblet, and a large hunk of bread. Dozens of candles glittered atop the table. There was no chair. “An offering to the ancestors, who are honored guests at the feast,” Sior murmured from just behind Jonmarc, following his gaze and guessing at his thoughts. Jonmarc followed Gabriel and Sior to places that had been set for them. Conversation resumed and the gathering regained a festive air, although Jonmarc did not see any of the newly married couples, nor was there a table set for them.

“What will happen to him?” Jonmarc asked Sior.

Sior frowned. “Eljan didn’t like his sister marrying someone outside of our pack. Vigulf tried to reason with him. What he did endangered the pack, because we need new members in order to survive.”

“Will Vigulf kill him?”

Sior met Jonmarc’s eyes. “No, we’re already too few. But he’ll be punished.”

Jonmarc remembered the terrified look on the man’s face and did not doubt that a repeat of the attack was unlikely. “And what about the newlyweds? Where are they?”

Sior’s expression softened to a knowing grin. “They’ll celebrate privately.”

The night was mostly spent before Jonmarc and Gabriel returned to Wolvenskorn. Torches blazed at the entrance and candles gleamed in the windows. Between the posturing of the Blood Council and the tension of the vyrkin weddings, Jonmarc was tired and ready to rest. He followed Gabriel into the manor and they walked into Gabriel’s well-appointed study. Books and scrolls filled shelves that went from floor to ceiling. The library was worth a fortune, and Jonmarc wagered that few kings could boast of so large a collection. Gabriel poured a brandy for Jonmarc and a goblet of goat’s blood for himself and motioned for Jonmarc to take a seat in one of the large leather chairs that sat in front of the now-darkened fireplace.