In a Wolf's Eyes

by A. Katie Rose

  I rolled my eyes, exasperated. “I repeat…so? Your country has magic. You said you can turn me into a toad, I imagine you can turn yourself into anything you want, including a wolf.”

  “I can, but that’s not my point. These men were not wizards, not magicians, not a one of them had magic in their blood.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but his raised hand forestalled me. “Wait, Raine, please. I feel this is important.”

  It wasn’t his impatience that convinced me to allow him to have his way. Rather, the powerful lack of it stopped me cold. For the first time since I’d met him, his catlike eyes held naught but a strong, yet quiet sincerity. I shut my mouth, cut my eyes from his and drank more ale. For some odd reason, it no longer tasted very good.

  “These men were not all from Khassart,” he resumed. “I’d heard this legend in other realms that knew next to naught about magic. The man-wolf creature is extremely rare, yet every culture speaks of the legend. Another odd thing I noticed, no matter the country or the language or the culture, the creature is always named gai’tan, the werewolf.”

  Deep within me, something stirred in recognition. Like a faint scent wafting on a summer breeze. Or the ghost of a ghost of a ghost. Distantly, I heard the dim howling of wolves under the light of a full moon.

  Gai’tan.

  The Chosen.

  The squirrels in my gut reproduced and repopulated into my heart and lungs. My pulse pounded in my ears. My breath snagged in my throat and refused to travel any further. I tasted fear on my tongue. Gods above and below—

  Frantically drawing air into my lungs, I tried to raise some scorn. Yet even to my own ears, my voice rang false. “Werewolves? I suppose they could turn themselves into wolves only at a full moon and murdered little children in their beds?”

  Rygel smiled. “Not at all. A gai’tan is a man born with the soul of a wolf. Therefore, he is both: man and wolf, in one body. No murder involved.”

  “There are no such things as werewolves.”

  “The first time I saw you, I saw a wolf. Not a man.”

  I forced an eye roll. “Your brain was also fried by tros. As an argument, that is rather pathetic. You need to do better than that.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  I twirled my finger in the air around my right ear. “You’re crazier than privy-bound rat.”

  Rygel smiled, a calm, understanding smile. It was one of those I-know-more-than-you smarmy smiles. I clenched my fist to prevent it from erasing that irritating smile from his face.

  “Search the innermost rooms of your soul and you’ll know I’m right.”

  “Search this.” I used a gesture more commonly used by slaves and not by the landed gentry.

  Rygel laughed. “Face it, you know I’m right.”

  “You’re a lunatic.”

  I shook my head in negation, trying hard to make Rygel’s words in my mind be as foolish as they sounded spoken aloud. A man and a wolf who shared one body? Nonsense. That was impossible…wasn’t it? Of course it was. The sudden high heat in my blood, the sudden sweat I felt trickling down over my ribs came from the horrid summer temperature. Of course it did.

  “Raine.”

  Rygel’s soft voice, so quiet that I should have been able to ignore it, caught my attention more than had he shouted. I couldn’t help it. I looked up.

  “You know something.”

  I studied my lap. Words came to mind and immediately passed through to vanish, disappear, unspoken. What do I say? What could I say? That my soul recognized the legend when I had never before heard of it? That I felt a very odd kinship with the wolves who haunted my sleep every night? Dare I speak thus he would think me mad? Maybe I was mad. I had to be mad.

  I rubbed my hand down my face, feeling the stiff bristles of my new-grown beard. I hated beards. “Wolves have haunted me ever since I can remember.”

  He straightened in his chair. “Haunted? How so?”

  “In dreams. I hear them howling. But lately—”

  I couldn’t go on. This was crazy. Utter lunacy.

  The eagerness in his eyes, his half-smiling face, the new sharp attention he riveted on me gave me some measure of courage.

  I swallowed a large gulp of ale. “But lately I’ve heard them when awake.”

  “When?”

  “The moment you and I met.”

  Rygel nodded, as though he had expected that. “And?”

  “When Lionel summoned me to the palace.”

  “I guessing that these are some kind of premonitions, no?”

  “Nay,” I snapped, standing up. “They’re just the insane dreams of a mad killer. They don’t mean a bloody thing.”

  I paced away from the table and leaned against the wall next to the window, my back to him. Staring sightlessly down into the dark, empty street below, I clamped down on my anger. “I’m not this—gai’tan—creature, Rygel. They called me The Wolf because I can kill as efficiently as any furry predator. No more than that.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  His mild response failed to quiet my anger. He did not intend to let this matter drop, that serene tone told me. You bloody well better, Rygel me lad, I thought. You might have all the power of the universe at your fingertips, but I can still break both your legs.

  “Denying it won’t help matters,” he said.

  “I am not a werewolf.”

  “You are gai’tan.”

  “And you are so full of shit you squeak going into a turn.”

  “Try it. Turn yourself into a wolf.”

  “Your mother was a wolf.”

  “Raine—”

  “Drop it before I drop you out this damn window.”

  “All right, all right. No need to get angry.”

  I see plenty of reason to be angry, I thought, but took a deep breath to wash away my irritation. It helped, barely.

  “I have an idea,” he exclaimed.

  “Usa’a’mah, save us,” I muttered.

  “We need a ceremony.”

  I kept my back to him, wishing he would just shut up and go to sleep. “Whatever for?”

  His excitement grew; I heard it in his voice. “In my land, men who grow as close as kin brothers, as we have done, hold a ceremony. Become ehlu’braud, the Brothers of Blood.”

  In spite of myself, I was interested. I turned around at last. “This is common in your country?”

  “Not very. Only those who share what we have shared should be ehlu’braud. We each saved the other. Without one, both would have perished. That is why we need a ceremony. A ceremony that will make us brothers in the eyes of the gods.”

  “So what do we need for this ceremony?”

  “Wine. I bet Leoda has the right kind.”

  Before I could stop him, Rygel dashed out the door, his feet clumping down the stairs. I slowly returned to my chair at the table and took another deep draught of my ale.

  Me? Become brother to a man I had known scarcely a week? Forced to agree, I realized that Rygel and I shared a bond that few men could ever hope to share with anyone. He risked all, all he had to give, for me, not once but twice. He saved my life, me, Raine the Wolf, a virtual stranger to him, a runaway slave. I risked my life to save him from the slavery of tros addiction. What two men could ever claim that?

  I had sisters, but no brothers. When I was small, I always wanted a brother. A brother with whom I could ride and wrestle. A brother with whom I could quarrel and laugh. A brother with whom I could share the possibilities of manhood and the mysteries of women. A brother I might name my son after. A brother who loved me unconditionally, whether I be prince or pauper, wealthy or poor, slave or freeman. The memories of my childhood before slavery flooded me, swamping my soul with pain and grief. The more I thought about it, the more intrigued I grew. I finished my scanty meal, pondering the implications.

  Rygel burst back in a few minutes later, his right hand clasping the neck of a wineskin. A very old wineskin. I eyed it dubiously.

 
“Why that stuff? It must be vinegar by now.”

  “It’s called mead. Brewed in Khassart.”

  “Mead?”

  “A wine made from honey. You’ll like it. Trust me.”

  I sighed. I hated it when he said that.

  Rygel set the skin down on the table and began fussing with cups, parchment and a tallow candle. Suddenly he stopped, staring at me.

  “Um,” he began slowly. “I didn’t even ask if you wanted to be my brother.”

  His face colored a faint pink with embarrassment, and I immediately read the thoughts behind his amber eyes. He feared I would reject him. The hurt of such a rejection would wound beyond all healing, I sensed, for we did indeed share an uncommon bond.

  I wanted to smile at his worry, turn it into a jest. My instinct told me that such a jest would break his heart rather than soothe his concern. He would laugh and smile, and the mead would disappear into his cup and he would never speak of it again.

  Instead, I locked gazes with him and spoke quietly and sincerely. “I’d be honored.”

  Satisfied and happy, he finished his table arrangements, setting out cups and pouring the mead. Rummaging through his packs until he found a length of leather strapping, he set that beside the wineskin. Then he blew out all but the one tallow candle. Setting his dagger beside the candle, he looked at me.

  “Ready?”

  “I expect so. What’s that for?” I nodded toward the dagger as I rose from my chair.

  “We need blood.”

  I quirked a brow at him, inviting further explanation, and he shrugged as though everyone knew but me. “We cut each other. If the gods approve of our brotherhood, our blood is shared and we are blood brothers. If not”—he jerked his head in a yea-nay gesture—“then we bleed a bit.”

  I sat opposite him at the table, eyeing the knife. While I had faced countless daggers in the hands of enemies, been cut, stabbed and sliced nearly as often, I’ve never used a weapon in cold blood, much less on someone I cared for as much as I did Rygel. To my surprise, the idea bothered me a great deal. I hoped I could do it.

  Rygel poured mead into the cups and lifted the dagger.

  “We cut our wrists, then tie them together,” he explained. “Some of our mixed blood drops into the wine. And we drink.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I have to chant a prayer to the gods, but yes, that’s all.”

  I allowed him to take my left wrist and cut a three-inch gash lengthwise down my inner arm. He quickly handed the dagger to me and exposed his own wrist. Ignoring my blood dripping onto the table, I lay the razor edge against his skin. Without allowing myself to think, I held my breath and rapidly slashed. Praying I did not cut him too deep, I set the dagger down.

  To his credit, he winced neither in pain nor at the sight of his blood welling from the deep cut.

  “Perfect,” he approved.

  Once more taking my arm, he set our bleeding wrists together, forearms touching, and reached for the strap. With his left hand and his teeth, he tied the leather around our arms nearly tight enough to slow the bleeding yet not so tight as to cut off circulation entirely. Blood continued to run down our arms and drip onto the table.

  Rygel caught a few drops of our mingled blood into each cup. Oddly enough, I felt little pain from the deep wound. Only the tight strap bit into my flesh and caused minor discomfort.

  “Close your eyes,” he commanded.

  I obeyed. The candlelight flickered dimly behind my closed lids. I heard Rygel begin an odd lilting chant, the words in a language I had never heard before, not even in his curses. His voice rose and fell softly, the cadence relaxing, soothing. My heart beat slowly in rhythm to the chant and a calm lethargy filled me. For a moment, I felt as though I would fall soundly asleep. Or perhaps I would fall into a trance.

  A sudden sensation in my arm jolted me and I nearly opened my eyes. A half pain and half burning ache spread from my hand to my elbow, growing in strength and ferocity as Rygel’s chant continued. Something told me that to move or open my eyes would break the spell, if a spell it were indeed.

  I forced myself to remain calm, and I focused instead on Rygel’s voice. The lethargy returned slowly, the trance reasserting itself. My pulse quickened and slowed in rhythm to his prayer, the throbbing in my arm building into a sharp crescendo.

  Then as suddenly as it began, the pain and Rygel’s voice stopped at the same instant. For a moment my head spun, vertigo making me woozy. My body lurched as though my heart stumbled, causing a tidal wave in my blood. When the feeling passed, it left behind a slightly nauseous belly, a headache and an odd feeling that I was no longer the same man.

  I heard Rygel draw a sharp intake of breath and let it out on a long sigh. “’Tis done,” he said. “The gods have approved.”

  I slowly opened my eyes. In the dim light of the candle, Rygel looked pale and drawn, exhaustion lining his face and eyes. He worked the strap, his fingers fumbling tiredly with the knot. I gently pulled his fingers away and untied the strap myself. I flexed my stiff fingers, discovering the slash in my wrist was gone. Without a trace. The cut left not even a scar.

  I took Rygel’s arm and turned it over. He could not heal himself from his injuries the day before. However, his arm now was as clean as mine.

  “Now we drink.” He pushed a cup toward me and lifted his own with a faint grin.

  I raised it, returning his smile. “A toast?”

  “To us, braud,” he said. “My brother.”

  “Braud.”

  We clinked cups and drank deep.

  “Turn yourself into a wolf.”

  “Shut up.”

  * * *

  Rygel improved greatly over the next two days. He did little save eat and sleep and rapidly regained his some of his former weight. I spent my time watching out the tiny window, sitting to the side to prevent anyone from the street glancing up and observing me observing them. I saw naught that would endanger us. No Federal soldiers, save the occasional patrol passing by, and no Kel’Hallans. All appeared peaceful, quiet and safe. Still, I would not relax my vigil until we escaped the Federation for good. To pass the time, I cut the jewels from my collar and Lionel’s sword hilt, dropping them into a small leather bag. Its heavy weight would see us not only out of Khalid in style, but might see Rygel back into his homeland.

  To alleviate Rygel’s boredom, we took turns making the trip to the main hall for food and ale. Rygel was on one such excursion while I sat in the chair and watched the quiet dusty street below. Very little moved in the summer’s heat, but a few dogs sniffed out offal, peddlers hawked their wares to the few citizens who passed. A few naked children played a game with sticks and a hoop. The all-too-recent riots and the unseasonably summer heat kept most people indoors. I watched with acute interest when a trio of Federates rode past, but they paid the inn no heed and within moments rode out of sight. I relaxed again, feeling grateful for the thick stone walls of the inn. It kept out the worst of the heat. Our room felt warm, but far more comfortable than the intense late summer heat of the outdoors. I yawned.

  Wolves howled.

  Damn bloody buggers, I thought. You invade my sleep and now you invade the rest of my life? Why don’t you slink into the hills and shut the bloody hell up? I have enough problems without adding wolves who liked the sound of their own voices into the mix.

  The wolves ignored me, and howled. Gods above and below, be silent will you? I am not that—creature. I refused to speak the word, even to myself. Rygel was wrong.

  A cacophony of wolf song answered me.

  Uneasiness crept on stealthy catlike feet up my spine. The yowling of the wolves grew louder. My stomach rolled slowly over, churning, queasy, making me feel slightly sick. My ears cringed from the incessant howling of the stinking wolves. I gripped Lionel’s hilt with a hand greased with sweat. Cease, damn you, cease! Sweat popped out on my cheeks, trickled down my temples from my hair. Something was wrong. Something was going to happen. Somethin
g—

  The door opened with a crash. I was on my feet, my sword out, before the sound reverberated through the room and died away.

  The Kel’Hallans streamed in, Rygel in their midst. The small room quickly filled with four, no five leather-clad warriors, bows already nocked. I could see the heads of several more in the hall outside the room. A big redheaded fellow with a thick drooping mustache held Rygel by a heavy rope around his throat, a long dagger thrust against the back of Rygel’s neck. A dagger poised for a killing blow.

  I hesitated, seeing that knife poised to end my brother’s life. One quick move and Rygel would be dead instantly. No magic could aid either him or me. With a speed that amazed me, the warriors leaped the beds and filled the tiny room. Two took up stations behind me. Two more flanked me. Their drawn recurve horse-bows never wavered, their steel-tipped arrows pointed at my head. Their flat eyes behind the nocked arrows, dark and angular, watched me.

  That alone told me they knew who and what they were dealing with.

  The big redhead gripping Rygel stared at me with fierce blue eyes. “Drop it, slave,” he rumbled.

  “Sorry, braud.” Rygel spoke up with a wry grin. “They were on me before I knew it.”

  In a flash, I saw their plan as clearly as if I had made it myself. Capture Rygel and use him as a shield. With that knife at his neck, he would not dare use his powers. The threat against him would then neutralize me, for they knew I would never risk his life to save my own. Nor would Rygel risk the archers filling me with arrows, should he fight with his magic.

  Use us against each other, I thought bitterly. That meant they knew of our friendship. They had been watching, waiting, planning while Rygel and I loafed, eating and resting. Rygel had been right to suggest we leave. Had I listened, we would have been near the border by now and free of Federates and Kel’Hallans both.

  Yet, I had eaten regret too many times before to succumb to its seductive charms now. What was done was done and in the hands of the gods.

  Behind the leather-clad warriors strode their fiery-haired princess. She quietly shut the door, walked sedately toward me, her own sword out and leveled at my throat. She had changed out of her priestess costume, and now wore a tiny sleeveless tunic over her breasts and a simple leather kirtle about her hips. This left her midriff bare, but revealed a tiny jewel, a diamond, in her navel. Her sword belt slung low over her hips, a dagger thrust into its own sheath, while her bow and quiver hung across her back. On both of her arms, gleamed armbands of what looked like gold, and silver cuffs surrounded her slender wrists. The golden torque of royalty once again graced her throat. Boots of supple goatskin rose to her knees, with gold spurs clinking at the heels. Her wild seductive beauty and the thick fall of newly dyed dark hair struck me anew, stunned me for a moment.