Mask’s head lifted a fraction. “Yes. I know the king.”
Rowan’s heart skipped a beat. Why? She couldn’t pinpoint the reason for the heat that suddenly flooded her chest, making it feel like she might explode. Was it the voice, or the words? Who was this man?
Her paws twitched. If there had been any possibility of ripping the mask off his face, she would have done it right there, would have used teeth, claws, whatever it took. Instead, she stared at him, willing her gaze to reach beyond the magically fused leather and silver. If she had her human form, she would have screamed at him, threatened him, begged him. But all she could do was sit and stare with her ears pinned back against her skull, muscles tensed. Begging him to say something more. What if…?
Dinarrel, unaware of her struggle, picked up on the line of Jannen’s question. “Yes. What can you tell us of king Ormand? If you know him, perhaps you know what he wants. This could help.”
Rowan didn’t even realize she’d shifted forward, almost brushing the stranger’s elbow, until his mask turned toward her, and from the corner of her eye she caught the gleam of Sorrell’s eyes on her as well. But Sorrell’s glaring brown gaze wasn’t the one that held her captive. It was Mask’s blue eyes, peering at her from the shadowed eyeholes, that drew her until they seemed to take up her entire field of vision. Almost, she could read his question there. He would be wondering why she turned so intense.
He cleared his throat and turned back to Dinarrel. “Ormand does nothing that isn’t motivated by power. If he gave the Shonno-mara this thing, then it is to serve his own ends.”
Rowan let her ears swivel, trying to capture every nuance of every syllable. There was something familiar in his voice quality, but his tone had returned to the clipped, bitter sound of a man in pain. Not merely physical pain, but something that went much deeper. Something that had tainted his soul.
It had been three years since she’d heard Aaro’s voice, and she’d known him for little more than a single day. And Aaro was dead. Even if there was some chance, she would never be able to identify him from his voice alone. Not like this. One minute she thought Mask sounded like him, the next minute she dismissed it as her emotions playing tricks on her.
“We must think, then, that whatever this thing does, it is meant to further his plans,” Dinarrel said. “But what are his plans? We were not aware that he sought more than to rule your western lands. Is he now thinking of more?”
“Yes.” Mask paused. “He is building his army, and now contacting the Shonno-mara. He wants more. But I don’t know in which direction he will go.”
Dinarrel nodded once, his weathered face unreadable, but otherwise he sat unmoving, as he had since they’d come in. “What more are your thoughts? You say your king wants power, but there are more kinds than one. Who does he mean to fight? Us? The Whonnollo of the south? They were once our brothers as well. Much longer ago than the Shonno-mara. Their difficult land protects them.”
Mask shook his head. “Swamps, jungles and deserts. They would hold no interest for Ormand.”
“What then? The People of the Gift? Would he attack us?”
The stranger paused, his thoughts protected behind the mask. “Maybe.”
“What do we possess that he would want?”
“Magic,” Mask replied. “But the Shonnowa are no great conquest. There aren’t enough of you in one place. The Shonno-mara would be more tempting, maybe…”
“This medallion then, is perhaps something he plans for their—ah—control?” Dinarrel watched him, his dark, sharp eyes intent, though he remained expressionless.
The others watched him as well, silent. Rowan glanced at their faces. Willow had her mouth open slightly, as though holding her breath. Sorrell looked fierce, barely controlled. The others merely waited, their expressions sharp.
The stranger’s lips, the only thing really visible below his mask, pulled to the side, pressed flat in thought. “That’s possible. But I don’t think the Shonno-mara are his end goal. It’s more likely he wants to use them. To conquer his brother.”
Silence fell again. Mask’s gaze flickered to Rowan for a moment, perhaps sensing that she would have more interest in the affairs of the country than the others.
“Your nation would go to war against itself? Your people against each other?” Sorrell spit out the words, his voice dipping in contempt.
Mask’s gaze raked over him, sharp enough it could have drawn blood. “Much like your own people,” he said.
Sorrell had no reply, but his brows drew together in a glare.
Mask returned his attention to Dinarrel. “But if Talva goes to war, it will cover most of the continent. You won’t be safe from it. Even the Whonnollo, as you call them, could be drawn in. War tends to spread out.”
Dinarrel nodded. “I must think about this. We must find out first, I think, what this medallion from your king does.” He rose, his son Rorren, and Jannen with him. They filed out the door, leaving Willow, Sorrell, and Rowan with the stranger.
“You seem very content for someone who just delivered a weapon into the hands of our enemies,” Sorrell said.
“What do you want me to say?” Mask responded. “I told you what my intentions were. You think I planned to almost die helping the man I’m going to kill?”
Willow gave her brother a sour look as she went about preparing to change Mask’s bandages for the day, now that she had room to work. She set a kettle of water in the fire, then sat down to cut strips from a length of cotton cloth. One of her last ones, if Rowan guessed right. Someone would be going into town soon. One thing Willow insisted on buying was clean cotton or linen cloth for her supplies. Many things the Shonnowa made themselves, but they didn’t have access to the flax or cotton required for material, and she would only use new cloth for something as serious as Mask’s wounds. Even then she took care to boil everything first, before it was cut.
“I think you are so consumed by your anger that you think of nothing else. Who will you harm before you murder this man?”
“Whoever I have to,” Mask replied flatly.
A sick feeling opened up in Rowan’s stomach, like the rotting of death. All the strained longing she’d felt to know his identity leaked out of her again. This man was certainly not Aaro. She didn’t want him to be Aaro. She rose from her haunches and went out. Evening was coming on already. The hanging door rustled as Sorrell joined her, resting his hand on her head between her ears. Even knowing she was a woman, most of them had a hard time fully comprehending that when she was in wolf form, she was still a woman. Gestures that would have been awkward and ridiculous toward another person—like petting their ears—were enacted toward her all the time as a wolf. Most of the time she didn’t mind. Especially from the children. But sometimes with Sorrell…
“Why do you favor him so?” he asked, looking down at her, still wearing his scowl, though now his expression bore hurt as well. “He is more a wolf than you are.”
Then get your hand off my head, she thought. But all she could do was meet his eyes. Even if she could speak, she didn’t know what to say.
Sorrell sighed. “He’s dangerous. I don’t trust him.”
She didn’t trust him either, but that was beside the point.
The Shonnowan man squatted on his heels, bringing him a little lower than eye-level with her. “I don’t have the right to do more to influence you against him. All I can do is beg you. He’s a stranger, and a killer. I don’t understand why you seem to care for him so much. You’ve known me for three years, and yet…” He paused, noting her flattened ears, and finished with a sigh. “I can’t help feeling that he’s won more of your loyalty simply by being mysterious and dangerous than I have by offering…everything.”
Rowan put a paw on his shoulder and shook her head, cursing her wolf’s tongue.
“Forgive me, please,” he said. “I only have the best wishes toward you.”
She watched him disappear into the gathering gloom, then turned her nos
e toward the sky. The moon was already up, waiting for darkness to reveal its glory. Not much of a moon, but enough to give her a chance to talk with Willow.
She turned and padded back inside.
Willow had finished with Mask’s chest and shoulder, and was cleaning his hand. His mouth twisted in pain, but he said nothing. He and Willow both glanced up at her as she stretched out in front of the fire, watching. She’d stitched his chest the night of the attack, but now, cleared of blood, she had a better view, even though she scolded herself for taking advantage of it. Part of her still couldn’t let go the equal parts hope and dread as she took in every detail that could remind her of Aaro.
One thing they had in common was an admirable physique. Even under a layer of bandages he was well worth looking at. If she had her human form, she’d be blushing. A faint burn scar warped the skin on his left arm. In spite of everything, disappointment crashed through her. Aaro’s only scar, beyond the small white nicks that most working men carried on their hands, was from a bullet through his right thigh. Rowan’s gaze traveled down below his belt level. Even if the burn was something he’d acquired in the last three years, she couldn’t exactly ask him to take his pants off to confirm the other. She huffed a sigh.
“Looking for something?” Mask asked.
Rowan raised her eyes to meet his, once again thankful that she was incapable of blushing at the moment when she realized her thoughts hadn’t entirely involved bullet scars.
At his words, Willow glanced from him to Rowan. Flashing dimples, she said, “Red seems quite taken with you, stranger. Something that not even my brother can boast. I hope soon to find out why.” She laughed, then sobered. “Do not misuse her devotion.”
Devotion? Not the word Rowan would have used. More like a maddening hunger to know his identity. She could not go on shredding her heart, hoping that miraculously Aaro could still be alive. But perhaps, if this man knew Ormand, he would also know Uncle Lance, and her cousins, and could open up a way for her to go to them. Or could deliver a letter for her.
Willow finished his hand and stood, while he worked at getting his shirt back on. She left both fresh water and more of her herbal tea for him, with the promise of supper later, and followed Rowan out of the house, where the waning crescent moon was already high in the sky. They both looked up at it.
“I’ll meet you in the clearing in a moment,” Willow said, smiling down at her before she hurried to her own cabin.
Rowan wandered toward the bonfire clearing. It was deserted tonight, blanketed in snow, and waiting for the solstice celebration two nights hence. The little bark lanterns were still hidden in the trees and bushes, firewood had been stacked under a canvas tarp, off to the side, and someone had created a makeshift table by laying rough planks out between two waist-high stumps that served the same purpose every year.
She swiped a pile of snow from one of the log benches, then dusted it with her tail. It took a long time for the pale, weak moonlight to begin tingling along her skin, and longer still for it to thicken around her. In the meantime, Willow appeared, wearing her coat, with a blanket draped around her shoulders. She handed an extra blanket to Rowan as her human form finally came.
The cold air bit at Rowan as she wrapped up in the blanket, joining her friend on the cleared log. Willow had brought a lantern, and set it on a stump off to the side, where it lent flickering golden light to the silver-blue moonlight.
For a long time they sat and stared at one another. Willow reached out and tucked a stray curl behind Rowan’s ear, smiling, though her eyes were troubled, probably matching Rowan’s own eyes. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
Rowan nodded and drew a deep breath of the cold air, suddenly trembling inside and water-eyed.
“What is it?” Willow asked, cupping her hands around Rowan’s cold cheeks. “Why does this stranger make you so stormy?”
“He reminds me…” Rowan sucked a breath, loathe to say it out loud. “He reminds me of Aaro.”
“My poor dear!” Willow shot a look back toward the house, hidden beyond a thin fringe of trees. “But Aaro is dead! You’ve said so many times.”
“I know,” Rowan said miserably. “But every time I look at him… everything about him. His voice, his scent, his eyes…even his hair is the same color. But longer.”
“You don’t truly think he could be?”
Rowan shook her head, hugging the blanket closer. “No. I don’t. But I can’t convince my heart of that. Even if I did believe it… he’s a different man. He’s bitter and wounded—I mean wounded in his soul, not just his body. I don’t want him to be my Aaro.” She groaned. “But I do. I want him back, Willow. It wouldn’t matter what he’d become, or what he’d done, or any of it. I just want him back.” Her voice hitched up an octave, and she struggled for a moment, hating her need to cry.
Willow scooted closer and wrapped her arms around her shoulders, leaning their heads together. She didn’t say anything, and Rowan got herself under control, swiping quickly at her eyes.
“Sorrell’s right. Whoever he is, he’s blind in his anger. He can’t be trusted,” Rowan said, pulling away and focusing her burning eyes on the lantern flame.
“No…” Willow answered, hesitating. “No, he can’t. You know for sure he isn’t your man?”
“If he would take his mask off…” Rowan scowled. “Other than that… Aaro didn’t have a scar on his arm. He did have one, an old bullet wound, almost as high as his right hip…”
Willow laughed softly. “I understand your difficulty now. The only thing left that you could do is tell him who you are.”
“I can’t though!” Rowan wailed. “It’s not him. It couldn’t be him. And I can’t trust him. Who knows what Ormand would do if it got back to him that I’m still alive! He intended me to die as a wolf. And Mask is going back to Ormand. He has to. I just miss Aaro, and that’s all there is to it. I know it’s silly. We were only together for a day. I hardly knew him. I never had a chance to memorize all the little scratches and lines on his hands, or the way his lips moved when he talked…but I loved him.”
She stopped again and choked back tears, struggling for control. “I can’t move on. Every time I convince myself it isn’t him… the next minute, I’m right back to hoping. I can’t bear to be around him, but I can’t keep myself away. And once he’s strong enough, he’ll leave, and I’ll never know…” she whispered, withdrawing into her blanket.
For a long time, Willow sat with her, sharing her silence. The deep, bitter silence of a winter’s night. For once, given the opportunity, Rowan couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“You’ve been with us for three years now,” Willow said finally. “And we have not found the way to break your curse for you. You are one of us, but you were not always. I cannot think of you leaving, but some day, if you wish to continue trying to find a cure, you will have to. I can’t tell you where to seek it, but perhaps your journey will open up possibilities we aren’t aware of now.”
“What? You’re saying I should go with him?” Rowan looked up at her friend, startled.
“I don’t think I can answer that. But I don’t want you to remain here forever, if there is a chance you could find your way back to your old life. But that is not quite what I mean either… I wish you could stay here with us forever, but not if it cost you the opportunity to get your human form back. Or your family. Even though you have had happiness here as a wolf, I know your heart longs for more.”
After another deep silence, Rowan said, “Thank you. I have a lot to think about now. It’s good to have someone who understands, because I don’t think I could ever explain it to Sorrell.”
“Probably not. He intends good, and he loves you—he just doesn’t understand you.”
Rowan laughed. “I’ve never met a man who did. Maybe Aaro did, for the short time we had together. But no one else.”
* * * * *
Aaro hadn’t been able to keep track of the days very well, especially there at t
he beginning, but he thought it must be almost a week since the attack. He leaned against the wall of the cabin, gingerly flexing his injured hand, and listened to the bustle of the tiny village outside. Something was happening tonight. He hadn’t heard this much activity in the few days he’d been here, and since there was nothing else with which to occupy his mind, he let himself be curious about it. Willow hadn’t brought his dinner yet either, and it was late. Already well past sundown.
Finally Red came in, shoving her way past the blanketed doorway, bringing a whirl of snow on her heels and carrying a lit lantern in her teeth. He noted the lantern was classic Talvan styled, with a glass globe in a metal frame, and a sturdy wire handle that made it possible for the wolf to carry it. She set the lantern down, the handle falling and clacking against the side, and grinned a doggy grin at him.
COME WITH ME, she wrote on the sandy floor.
Aaro looked at her incredulously, and then glanced at his crutch. She nudged it from its place leaning against the wall, making it fall in his lap, then wrote, WILLOW SAYS YOU CAN.
“What’s happening?”
WINTER SOLSICE.
He gave her a blank look, and she rolled her eyes at him.
JUST COME.
Aaro levered himself off the ground, balancing until he could get his crutch situated. He hobbled to the door and ducked outside, huffing the cold air full of falling snow. The world looked blue in the twilight, but soon it would be dark, with the storm hiding any hint of moon or stars.
Rorren, the village elder’s son, if Aaro remembered right, slipped up beside him carrying an armful of extra blankets, flashing his white smile. He beckoned to the nearby trees, and a path leading through them. Several villagers hustled along, disappearing down the path. The younger man waited for Aaro to start, then dogged his footsteps as he minced along on his crutch, pausing several times to let the tremble in his leg subside, while Red followed them with the lantern.
Quench the Day (Red Wolf Trilogy Book 1) Page 17