Wolfsbane Winter

by Jane Fletcher

  The high counselor was ambitious, and his plans demanded that he kept the king’s ear. Orrin had said they were kindred talents. Had he been concerned at the possibility of her becoming a rival, and so had removed her from the game before she became a threat? If so, it was a bitter irony. Had he asked, Alana would have told him that she had no ambition whatsoever to play games at court. He could keep the king’s ear—both of them, and his nose as well, for all she cared.

  “Orrin—” Alana managed to choke out the name.

  Reyna did not give her the chance to finish. “Yes. He’s given me instructions on how to take care of you. And I will. I won’t leave you. I promise.”

  Discomfort now blended with the affection, tainting and weakening it. Was Reyna unsure of her ability to fulfill that promise?

  “I love you.”

  Yet the affection ebbed still further as Reyna took Alana’s hand and squeezed it.

  “I’m going to do everything I can so you learn how to cope with crowds again and we can come back to Ellaye. Maybe we’ll only be gone for a few months. I’m sure it won’t be long. And we’ll be together, so it…”

  A stream of emotions rippled through Reyna as she spoke, a weak flare of hope mingled with sexual desire, squashed by misery. Guilt that threatened to tip into resentment, if it were not for the counterbalance of affection. Alana could read it so easily.

  Reyna did not want to go, would rather stay in Ellaye, yet was feeling compelled. It was all so obvious, exactly what Alana would have expected, except for the desire. Reyna’s affection had been for her, but the desire had not. It had flared at the thought of returning to Ellaye, and it had been extinguished as the resentment grew. In going away from court, Reyna was leaving a lover, or someone she hoped would become a lover—but who?

  Alana closed her eyes, willing sleep to return, willing the stream of information to stop. She told herself that she could put no faith in what she thought she was picking up. She refused to put any faith in it. Not only was she drugged to the point of stupor, but this new sense was untried and unfamiliar. Yet she could not block out her thoughts.

  Who was Reyna hoping to see when she came back to Ellaye?

  Approaching the town of Oakan, northern Galvonia

  17th year of the reign of King Alvarro II

  Fall, octubre 6, midafternoon

  For the last few miles of the journey, the track left the riverbank and passed through dense forest. Tall pines overhung the rutted dirt road. The route climbed steadily, crossing the southern slopes of Beck Hill and cutting off a wide loop in the course of the Oakan River. The roar of the water faded away behind, replaced by the trill of birdsong.

  Off to one side, Deryn spotted a flash of white rumps as deer fled deeper into the forest. The animals vanished amid the wilting yellow undergrowth. Summer was gone and the ferns were dying back. Another month or two, and there would be nothing except snow and the occasional outline of an ancient ruin beneath the pines. The road turned a bend, zigzagging on the final, steeper section of the ascent. Up ahead, a patch of sky peeked between the tree trunks.

  At the crest of the hill, Deryn pulled on Tia’s reins, bringing the mare to a standstill so the rest of the team could catch up. As scout for the party, her position out in front was traditional, even though nobody could possibly get lost, this close to home. While waiting, Deryn took in the view.

  A ring of mountains surrounded the broad valley below. The white-capped peaks were stark against dark clouds that threatened rain. Tallest of all, Mount Oakan filled the skyline to the northeast. The river looped back into sight and meandered away, a gray band under a grayer sky.

  The forest ended in a ragged line where farms cut patchwork strips between the blue-green pines. Twisted strings of smoke marked the location of farmhouses and herds of sheep and cattle grazed in fields. In the middle of the valley, the farms were tightly packed together, squeezing out the pines. In the center of it all, the town of Oakan squatted by the banks of the river. The dense jumble was so compact that the buildings appeared to be crawling over each other.

  The town was too distant to make out details, but from experience, Deryn knew it was hastily tacked together and poorly maintained. Each year, the heavy winter snows took their toll. The roads were potholed and the timber-framed houses were warped and weather beaten. The settlement had grown in the wilderness, without any sort of overall plan or vision, as each new arrival had tacked on whatever construction best fit their needs and pocket. Most of the building material had come from the surrounding forest, supplemented by anything usable that could be scavenged from the ruins of Old Oakan. The clumsy blend of rough-cut timber and ancient masonry made Oakan an ugly mess of a town. Yet as ever, on her return from the wastelands, it was the most welcoming sight that Deryn could imagine.

  Oakan marked the beginning and end of the Misery Trail. It provided a base for the Iron Wolves and also a hub for the miners who prospected in the mountains to the south and east. Both groups were happy to take advantage of the town’s position on the borders of civilization, where the King’s Law was interpreted a little more liberally than in the heartland of Galvonia. Oakan’s streets held more taverns than tailors, more casinos than carpenters, and more brothels than bakers.

  The depravity of Oakan was notorious and the staid farmers and tradesfolk of the region might have preferred a quieter life, were it not for the profit to be made from a stream of customers on their doorstep who were willing to pay over the odds for supplies. The King’s Marshals were the only ones who actively objected to the loose morals and tried to keep a lid on the revelers’ high spirits, but they were spread too thinly on the frontier to do more than make the occasional firm gesture.

  Beltran stopped beside Deryn. “It’s party night, tonight.”

  “Every night’s a party night in Oakan.”

  “I like to make the easy calls.”

  Deryn grinned. Beltran did not hesitate to make the tough calls either. He had been a capable leader for the band of Iron Wolves guarding the caravan.

  He patted Deryn’s shoulder and then urged his horse on. “You’ve done well. Got us home nice and early.”

  “I can’t take all the credit. I had help from the weather.”

  “You can take most of it. I’ve been with so-called scouts who couldn’t get back much before the Night of the Lost if they’d had nothing but clear blue skies and a hot coal up their ass.”

  Deryn shrugged in answer. Just over three weeks remained until the festival, which had become the target date for the completion of the trade route, although in practice, anything up to a month either side was normal. Those taking much longer on the Trail were likely to get engulfed by the winter snows and never complete the journey at all.

  “Best of all, you kept us safe.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “I mean it. You spotted those windigos lurking in the shallows. Some scouts need their head bitten off before they think to check.” Beltran nodded appreciatively. “You’re a good scout.”

  “I had a good teacher.”

  “In that case, pass on my thanks.”

  “I will.”

  Just a few weeks more, and she would be able to do so. Deryn intended to spend the winter with Brise—a chance for them to catch up. They had not met for a year and a half. Brise was currently riding the desert trails, far to the south. The work was less profitable but also less strenuous than the Misery Trail. Brise claimed it was a concession to her age, even though she was still in good shape. Deryn felt her foster mother had given up too quickly. Alby, a member of her current team, was even older, and he had coped just fine, proving that experience counted for far more than speed. Maybe, when they met, she would be able to talk Brise into giving the Misery Trail one final shot.

  Beltran glanced her way. “Do you think you’ll ride the Trail again next year?”

  “Maybe. I’ll see how I feel, come spring.” Her plans for the future were not something Deryn was ever happy disc
ussing.

  “I’ll recommend you for any crew I’m on, if I get a say in the hiring.”

  “Thanks, I may take you up on that.” And I may not.

  The dismissal was nothing personal. Beltran was a capable warrior who led by example. Deryn had found him to be a shrewd judge of both people and danger. He was exactly the sort of Iron Wolf she would pick to follow on the Misery Trail, if it were not that she made it a rule never to travel on the same team with anyone twice, except for Brise.

  Deryn glanced over her shoulder at the other Iron Wolves, who were following, strung out on either side of the line of wagons. For seven months they had lived together, day after day, sharing the dangers, the hard work, and the excitement of the Trail.

  Rico was a loudmouth and Chay had taken too many knocks to the head. For both of them, Deryn could think of several brick walls she could have more fun talking to, but the rest of the band were okay. Nina had a wicked sense of humor. Alby was easygoing and dependable. Corbin had risked his life for her, crossing the swollen river. Saying good-bye would be hard enough, after just one season. Deryn did not intend to risk growing fonder.

  In under an hour, they reached the outskirts of Oakan. Ramshackle corrals and stables clustered around the approach road. Deryn patted Tia’s neck. After once again completing the Trail, the horse deserved better care than anything she was likely to receive in these cheap establishments. When the traders paid off their Iron Wolf guards there would be plenty of money to go around, and Tia had earned her share of it.

  “Oats for you tonight, girl, and the best stable in town.”

  Tia’s ears twitched back and her head bobbed, as if she was cheered by the thought.

  “What will you have to reward yourself?” Beltran asked.

  “Beer.” Deryn paused, thinking. “And maybe a whiskey or two.”

  “The Lodestone?” He named a tavern, popular with Iron Wolves.

  “You’ll be there?”

  “Yes. Nina and me talked about it over breakfast. Rico liked the idea too. We’ll tell the others when we stop.”

  Deryn nodded and said nothing. The end-of-Trail gatherings were something else that she always avoided. What was the point in dragging a celebration out of saying good-bye?

  Tomorrow they would all drift apart. Like the smoke rising over a camp fire, the team would be carried away on the draft of circumstance. These people had been her comrades, but once the team was paid off she would never set eyes on most of them again. They were no longer part of her life, and it did not matter. Deryn forced the thought to the front of her mind. It did not matter. They were not friends or family. They had never been anything other than a chance grouping, brought together for a job. Now the task was over and all Deryn wanted was to go. Just take the money and turn away.

  Oakan’s wide Main Street was unpaved. The traffic kicked up a choking haze of dust in summer and churned it to ankle-deep mud in winter. The wooden facades of the establishments on either side were in better shape than most of Oakan, even if the buildings they were attached to were the same old decrepit shanties. Painted signs in gaudy colors hung outside, proclaiming their owners’ trade or profession. Raised wooden boardwalks lined the storefronts, running beneath flimsy verandas.

  The rain started as Beltran called a halt outside the Wolves’ Den, the hiring post where they had started out, seven months before. Copies of their contracts would be stored inside, should any of the traders be so misguided as to want to argue.

  Deryn turned up the fleece-lined collar of her jacket and looked up and down the street. Half the buildings were taverns, gambling halls, brothels, or some combination of the three. She considered each in turn: the Drunken Dog, the Lucky Strike, the Warrior’s Return, and the rest. The prices they charged were even more outrageously inflated than for the rest of Oakan, relying on the inexperience of newcomers too nervous to risk the back streets. None of the Main Street taverns would be her preferred drinking spot, except that she was unlikely to run into another Iron Wolf in any of them.

  The Lodestone lay on a side street. Deryn glanced at the junction that led to it, and then looked away. She was not going to join the end-of-Trail party. It was not as if she would have to drink alone, wherever she went. Most of her pay was needed to cover the costs of her trip down south to Ellaye, and to see her through winter, but this still left plenty to ensure she had company that night, and the ones thereafter. The sort of company that could be bought might be shallow and artificial, but it was readily available and even more readily disposable, no ties and no expectations.

  True companionship would have to wait until she got to Brise. Even if she went to the Lodestone with the others, what would it give her? Her ex-comrades did not know her well enough to understand her. Nobody did, apart from Brise. The sudden stab of loneliness surprised Deryn. She clenched her teeth, as if it would help clamp down on the maudlin emotions. Next year, if Brise would not ride the Misery Trail, maybe she would join her foster mother in the desert. A change in scenery would not be such a bad thing.

  Beltran had dismounted to talk with the leader of the traders. The rest of the caravan were milling around. Everyone was laughing and chatting. Soon a round of hugging and back thumping would break out. Deryn stroked Tia’s neck. This was the part she hated. She just wanted her money and to go, but she knew that some would try to drag things out. Deryn looked up at the sky. The rain was getting heavier and a full-fledged cloudburst was looming. With luck, it would speed up the proceedings.

  Corbin nudged his horse close. “Shame the rain didn’t hold off a bit longer.”

  “Yup.”

  “But we’re home safe.”

  “Yup.”

  “Back in Oakan.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Corbin was a nice young lad, if a not brilliant conversationalist. He was eighteen years old, tall and broad shouldered, with dark skin, curly black hair, and a crooked nose from an accident in his childhood. Deryn knew that he now also had a scar on his thigh from where he had fended off the broken tree, carried by the torrent—an action that had given her the time to regain her footing and complete the river crossing.

  If Corbin had not been there…

  Deryn pushed aside the thought. Corbin might have saved her life, but he would have done exactly the same for anyone else that the traders had chosen to employ. There had been nothing personal about it. Helping each other through the dangers was part of the job they were paid to do. The job that was over.

  Corbin was going out of her life, with his strength, his cheerfulness, his love of smoked bacon, his absurd pink undershirt, his off-key whistling, the letter from his father that he held but did not read each night before going to sleep. Deryn ticked off the details in her head. What did it count for? How well did you know someone after seven months?

  “First time I’ve done the whole Trail.”

  This was also something she knew about him. “What did you think of it?”

  Corbin scrunched his nose. “Wasn’t as exciting as I’d expected.”

  “Not even having windigos on our tail?”

  “Well, that bit maybe. But you got us out of it without a fight.” He sounded disappointed.

  “You wanted one?”

  “It’d be something to tell my dad about.”

  “If you’d survived.”

  “Yeah. There is that.” Corbin laughed. “Dad will have to make do with the story about the flooded river. I can show him the scar.”

  Deryn nodded. “I owe you. Big-time.”

  He shrugged. “You’d have done the same for me, but if you want, you can buy me a drink. Will you be at the Lodestone tonight?”

  The one-word answer slipped out before Deryn could stop it. “Yes.”

  *

  The air was heavy with the combination of wood smoke, stale beer, and unwashed bodies. The tavern smell was thick enough to wrap around the patrons like a blanket, enfolding them in a warm alcohol cocoon. Yellow candlelight lapped over flushed faces
, blurring them with soft shadows. Waves of rough voices rose in laughter. A fiddle scratched a tune in one corner, accompanied by a thumping of feet that bore little correlation to the rhythm.

  Deryn sat on a bench in the corner, leaned her shoulders on the wall behind her, and drained her tankard. The beer had a rich malt flavor and a solid kick to it. It was definitely some of the best to be found in Oakan, and the price was below average for the town, a combination that went a long way to explain the popularity of the Lodestone among Iron Wolves.

  The three pints she had downed were making Deryn comfortably mellow. She was tempted to go to the bar for another, but it was not her turn to buy the next round. Not that this was an issue. She was in a generous mood and the purse tied to her belt was heavy with coin, but there was no need to rush. She could take her time and still be sure of finishing the night dead drunk.

  A loud burst of shouts and cheering claimed her attention. Even in the hubbub she recognized the voices. Rico and Corbin had joined the dancers. Judging by the wild cavorting, they were having a competition as to who could expend the most energy. The activity could be called dancing only because there was no other word that described it any better. Corbin saw her watching and waved, beckoning her over. Deryn shook her head. She had not drunk enough—not yet.

  The bench shook as Alby dumped himself down beside her and propped his feet on the rungs of a nearby stool. “Another ride over.”

  “Yup.”

  Alby had undoubtedly completed more rides than most. His skin was weathered like old leather. Once his hair would have been black. What was now left was mostly gray. Yet he had more than pulled his weight on the Trail, putting many of the younger Iron Wolves to shame. He was easy company, uncomplaining and quick to laugh. Added to his vast store of knowledge about the wastelands, it had made him one of the most valued members of the team.