Quench the Day (Red Wolf Trilogy Book 1)

by Shari Branning

  “I see.” Rowan answered a little easier this time. A grin tugged the corner of her mouth. “Well. Who could refuse an offer like that?”

  “We cannot go until the thaw begins. The pass through the mountains will be too treacherous until then. But I hope to make the journey and be back before our guest leaves.”

  She nodded, finally smiling, though her face fell when she remembered the traps in the woods. “I have to tell you,” she started, when the clearing grew suddenly dark, and she felt the tingle of her curse along her skin. She looked up and saw that the moon had gone down behind the trees, and huffed in frustration. “I found traps set around the village today,” she said in a rush. “By Talvan soldiers from Silver Rock. King Ormand has put a price on my head, and they are trying to trap me. I’m afraid it could put your people in danger.”

  That was all she got out before she shifted, and found herself sitting awkwardly on her tail, swallowed up by the blanket that had been draped over her shoulders. She fought her way free with a growl and jumped down.

  “I will tell Dinarrel of the men hunting you. We will keep you safe.”

  Rowan shook her head. It wasn’t her own safety she was worried about. What if they set more traps, and a child stepped in one of them? Hopefully someone else would think of that as well. She sighed. She would just have to be more vigilant in the future.

  The sound of a twig snapping tugged her ears toward the blackness under the trees across the clearing. What might have been a muffled curse followed. She looked toward the sound, feeling the fur along her spine rise, and saw a wink of light. There and gone.

  “What is it?” Sorrell crouched down next to her, following her line of sight. Starlight reflected on the snow, not as bright as the moon, but bright enough to illuminate the clearing with its log benches and fire ring buried under a foot of snow. Another moment and a figure stepped out of the trees, carrying a shaded lantern and a naked sword. Rowan rumbled out a low growl, and the man flinched, dropping into a partial crouch.

  Sorrell rested his hand on her head briefly before he stood and called out, “I greet you, stranger. What do you seek?”

  The man flinched again, but he straightened up slowly and flashed his lantern three times toward the woods before leaving it uncovered. A signal, Rowan guessed. In a moment she heard more twigs snapping and another man’s voice called, “Find something, Fin?”

  Fin, who she thought might be the lanky soldier they’d encountered in Silver Rock, called back, “She’s here.”

  “Your people are very rude,” Sorrell said in an aside to her as Fin waited for his friends and didn’t speak. She snorted. She’d long since ceased thinking of Ormand and his followers as being from the same species, let alone the same nation.

  “What do you seek,” Sorrell asked again as two other men joined Fin in the clearing. They all shifted uncertainly. Rowan had no doubt they were the same ones who had set the traps, and they were coming back to check on them. Given that, they probably weren’t sure what to do with this situation, where she was free and facing them down with a Shonnowan man at her side.

  “Give us the wolf,” one of the men said. “She’s a menace, and our king wants her brought to him alive.”

  “Alive? Interesting. So you set traps that could have killed her?” Sorrell said. “That doesn’t seem wise. And why would your king want a wolf brought to him alive if he merely thought she was a menace?”

  They shifted uncomfortably, their lanterns casting ugly shadows across their faces.

  “And tell me, please, how she is a menace?” her friend went on. “Has she threatened anyone?”

  “Who cares?” Fin said. “The king wants her, so he’ll have her. Bring her here.”

  “Very rude,” Sorrell grunted in Shonnowan. To the soldiers he said, “Go home, king’s men. The wolf is not mine to give any more than she is yours to take, and you are being offensive. Also, do not set your traps here. They are a danger to my people.”

  “Or what,” Fin sneered. “You’ll curse us? Everyone knows you vagabonds are too high and mighty for that.”

  “What is a vagabond?” Sorrell asked her. She couldn’t answer, of course, so he just shrugged. Stepping in front of her, he unfastened his belt—a worn leather one with ornamental tracings of silver on it that he always wore—and pulled it free, holding it in a loose loop in his hands. He jerked it taunt suddenly, a motion that should have produced a loud crack. Instead, boom! A shockwave reverberated through the clearing. Rowan, standing mostly behind him, was knocked backward off her feet, her ears ringing, but the soldiers in front of him fared far worse. They were thrown backward, smacking into trees or skidding through the snow before they came to a stop.

  Shouts rose from the village, though they sounded muffled to Rowan’s shocked ears. By the time the soldiers began to stir, picking themselves off the ground, she and Sorrell had been joined by Dinarrel, Jannen, and several other men, including Mask, who had limped out into the snow in his shirtsleeves and without his crutch.

  “Who are they?” Dinarrel asked.

  “Soldiers from Silver Rock. They set traps trying to catch Red.”

  Dinarrel stepped forward, peering at the men. “It is best, I think, if you do not come back here,” he said.

  The trio of soldiers left, casting dirty looks back before they disappeared into the trees. The Shonnowa stood and watched their lanterns bobbing until they disappeared.

  “Set a watch tonight,” Dinarrel said to Sorrell as he turned back toward the village.

  Sorrell nodded. He caught Rowan’s eye and grinned. “You like that? Not a very practical weapon, but it is my favorite.”

  Rowan nodded dumbly, her ears still ringing. She’d been with the Shonnowa for three years, and they lived so simply that sometimes she forgot they could craft with magic.

  * * * * *

  During the remaining weeks of winter, Mask continued his silent recovery, staying in Rowan’s tiny hut. Occasionally, as his leg grew better, he would wander out hunting, or ice fishing. He always cooked his own meat, seasoning it in the fashion Rowan remembered from home, with the stronger flavors of salt, spicy pepper, garlic, or vinegar, rather than the Shonnowa’s typical mild herb flavorings. It made her miss her family. Uncle Lance, Dustan, her father—even aunt Rose Marie haunted her as the smells drifted out of the deerskin doorway, calling her inside, where they would share a silent meal.

  Each day she wished she could speak to him, to ask the questions that continued to burn her. But even Willow, with her infectious smile, couldn’t pull any more information out of him than they already had, so perhaps Rowan wouldn’t have done any better with her voice. Mask seemed to prefer her silent company anyway, over any of the others.

  When snow still covered the ground beneath the trees, but the breezes blowing up from the valley smelled of dirt and thaw, Sorrell came into her hut, wrinkling his nose at the smell of pickled rabbit, and announced that it was time for their visit to the Shonno-mara. He cast Mask an accusing glance that neither he nor Rowan could miss.

  Rowan—who’d long ago given up trying to eat like a human—finished licking her bowl clean, while Mask looked up sharply from his own dinner.

  “I’m going with you.”

  Chapter 17

  “No.” Sorrell looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

  Mask gave a little shrug of impatience. “You think this information is any less important to me than it is to you? The danger from Ormand’s schemes is my people’s, not yours.”

  “You should have considered that before you put an unknown power into enemy hands.”

  “Next time I’ve got three arrows in me, with a sword at my throat, maybe I will stop and ‘consider’ it. In the meantime, I’m going with you.”

  Sorrell turned to Rowan, stiff with anger. “I don’t trust him. He lives for nothing but revenge. Surely I am not the only one reluctant to put my life in his hands.” He switched to Shonnowan halfway through his tirade. “Even you c
an’t be so soft toward him that you cannot see the danger of this idea. He may remind you of your husband, but this is not the same man.”

  Rowan huffed an annoyed sigh and scratched in the sandy floor, HIS PEOPLE ARE MY PEOPLE, AND I DO NOT HAVE THE MEANS TO WARN THEM.

  “He can wait for us to return, and bring word,” Sorrell said, still in Shonnowan.

  “I will follow on my own, you know,” Mask interrupted. “Which do you fear more, having me with you, or following where you can’t see?”

  Sorrell growled and flung aside the deerskin door to stomp outside.

  Mask watched him disappear, then went back to eating. When he’d finished he went about packing his saddlebags, pausing when Sorrell came back in a short while later, tossing a set of Shonnowan clothes at him.

  “If you come with us you’ll need to look like one of us. Your mask covers your face, but keep your hands in your gloves. They are not dark enough. And do not show your guns. Or speak.”

  Mask nodded. He started unbuttoning his shirt, and Rowan figured it was time to take a walk. She followed Sorrell back out into the evening dusk, sniffing the air for the smells she’d come to find comforting, of cookfires, horses, pine, earth, and people.

  “You’ll want to see Willow before we go,” Sorrell said. He nodded toward the bonfire clearing, though the moon was hidden by clouds that night, and would not allow her to say goodbye to her friend.

  She found Willow—and most of the rest of the village—seated on benches around a roaring bonfire, and stopped in surprise. Willow rose and welcomed her into the circle. Unable to ask why they had all gathered, Rowan jumped up on the log bench beside her friend and waited, at their mercy for information.

  “We’ve gathered to bid you farewell,” Willow said.

  Rowan blinked in surprise, scanning the familiar faces around the fire. A heavy, empty feeling opened up in her gut. No. She wasn’t leaving yet. Only going with Sorrell and Mask on a small trip…

  Dinarrel stepped forward, his arms folded together with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his deerskin coat, making him look like a wizened little sage. “We think it likely that your friend, Mask as he calls himself, will wish to part with us once he finds what he wishes to know about this medallion from his king. He will not return to us here, and if you wish to travel with him, then you must not plan to return either, until the Almighty directs your steps back to us. So we bid you good-bye now. Well met, Red Wolf.”

  A murmur of approval from the others in the circle wrapped around Rowan like the warmth from the fire. “Good hunting,” some of them called, while others just repeated Dinarrel’s words, “Well met, friend.”

  Dinarrel pulled his hands free from his sleeves, and the crowd grew silent again as he held out what looked like a collar, or a circlet, gleaming with a hint of metallic shine in the firelight. He handed it to Willow, who presented it to Rowan. A slender strip of stiff leather had been fused, by the Shonnowan art, with strands of copper to form a glittering band, from which hung a coin-sized copper pendant. As she looked at it closer, Rowan cocked her head in surprise, for it was crafted in the shape of the D’Araines family seal. Not the seal of the kings, but the modified one that Aaro had used to sign his marriage proposal to her, going on four years ago now.

  Again, questions jumbled in her mouth as she looked from Willow to Dinarrel for an explanation. Willow undid the little copper clasp, securing the collar around Rowan’s neck, and bringing the subtle thrum of magic to her through her fur.

  “Our gift to you,” Willow said. “For our parting. Dinarrel and the elders have worked on it for many nights and days, infusing it with Nawassa. If you are hurt, it will heal you. It will remain true to its own form whether you are human or wolf, and, like our friend’s mask, it can only be removed by the one wearing it.”

  “And unlike your incomplete curse,” Dinarrel added, “it will work in sunlight, moonlight, or darkness.”

  Rowan bowed to them. She had so many questions that still burned her tongue, but she did her best to convey her gratitude without words. One by one the Shonnowa filed past her, either bowing, or hugging her, or giving her whiskers a friendly tug—which had somehow become one of their favorite signs of affection toward her. At last the clearing emptied, and only Willow remained.

  “I wish so many things this night,” she said, sighing as she sat beside Rowan. “I wish that we had been able to break your curse, that you didn’t have to leave, or that I could go with you.”

  Rowan nodded, looking up at the cloud cover that obscured the moon and sighing.

  Willow laughed softly. “Yes, and I also wish the moon was out to let us have a conversation this last time.”

  Rowan shook her head.

  “No, no, I didn’t mean for the last time. But the last time for a long while, almost certainly.”

  With a nod, Rowan touched the pendant on her new collar—not an easy feat with canine forelegs—and swiveled her ears.

  “Ah. You wish to know more about your gift.” She reached out and fingered the copper pendant. “The elders layered it with many different facets of Nawassa. As Dinarrel said, it is not limited to light, as are some things. It also will not be used up. It draws the Nawassa from the atmosphere and stores it, so it will always renew itself.”

  Rowan nodded, but tapped the pendant again.

  “Oh I see. You mean the seal?”

  She nodded again.

  “Sorrell and I discussed it at some length, and hoped it would be the best choice. Married into the D’Araines family, it is legally your seal now, even though Aaro is dead, and it might provide protection, especially with the collar. If people see the collar, they will know you belong with someone, and perhaps they will not fear you so. And if they examine it and see the D’Araines seal, they would not dare harm you. So I hope it will protect you in more ways than just the one.”

  Rowan nodded. The coin-sized seal nestled in her fur, small and inconspicuous. No one would recognize it unless they were close enough to touch it.

  “Your collar is unique, you know,” Willow said. “I don’t know if there is another like it anywhere. Healing spells are the most difficult and complex to render, and require knowledge of how healing works. Dinarrel has tried many times before to infuse some of my tools with the healing gift, but has never been entirely successful until now. Some of them were only good for a single use, or were too weak to heal completely. Every person at any given time has multiple, little things wrong with them. Whether they are overly weary, or have an issue with their digestion or any number of insignificant things, yet as soon as you touch a healing object, it would right all of those things, as well as trying to mend your more grievous ailment, and it would be too much. Your collar has many, many layers of spells. That is what makes it genius.”

  Rowan bowed her head. They should not have given her something so priceless. It could have been used for the village. But she had no way of saying so, and her paws were too clumsy to undo the buckle and give it back. Not to mention, that would have been offensive to all of them. She sighed.

  “Have no fear,” Willow said. “Now that we have perfected the spells, we will make other healing objects, though it will take some time.” Her eyes twinkled. “And then I shall be unemployed, and my skill will be unappreciated and will diminish without practice.” She laughed. “But I suppose one cannot complain about that.”

  Rowan leaned her head on Willow’s shoulder, lifting a paw in an awkward attempt at a hug. Inwardly she raged that it was the best she could do. A paltry, failed gesture to convey all the gratitude and friendship of almost four years, plus much more. But Willow understood. She wrapped her arms around Rowan’s shoulders and shed tears onto her furry head.

  * * * * *

  Three days later, Rowan peered across a valley in the fading light, dimly making out the shape of mountain cliffs and crevasses, where Sorrell assured them there was a city. It took her a few minutes to realize that the mountain was the city. Or some of it
, anyway. She looked up at Sorrell, though she couldn’t read his expression well in the dark. Even Mask grunted his appreciation of the spectacle.

  “Impressive, is it not?” Sorrell said, squatting down on his heels, staring across the dark valley. He took off his glove to blow on his fingers. “This should have been our home as well. It would have been, if we had not been cast out for our convictions.”

  And do you regret your ancestors’ choice? Rowan wanted to ask him. Surely not all the generations of Shonnowan children shared their parents’ conviction. But did any of the Shonno-mara ever turn back to the ancient laws of their people?

  “We should camp down the ridge tonight,” Mask said, turning away as a gust of bitter wind swirled snow around them. He started back down their disappearing trail, leading his horse and gathering fallen branches and sticks as he went.

  They had climbed further into the mountains during their three days’ ride, and spring still seemed mostly like wishful thinking here. It would be a cold, cold night, even for Rowan. She turned and followed Mask, leaving Sorrell to cast a last, wistful look before he reluctantly followed them.

  The two men hadn’t said more than two dozen words to each other since they’d left the village, and their obstinate silence grated on Rowan. Nor did she blame one over the other. They were both acting like children, as far as she was concerned.

  When they had retreated down the ridge a way, they stopped to set up camp. Sorrell worked on starting a fire, while Mask gathered more wood to put up a small shelter. Rowan, meanwhile, walked a circle around the area, sniffing for danger. She picked up several old scent trails, but nothing within the last few days. The Shonno-mara had a different caste to their scents than the Shonnowa. More earthy, complex with tones of mineral and metal, while her friends from the village typically had more woodsy, herbal nuances to their scents.

  She lifted her nose to sniff the air, catching the faraway taint of wood smoke and people. Much nearer to their camp were hints of deer. A pack of wolves had been in the area recently, but so far as she could tell, they hadn’t lingered. The only sounds were the trees, creaking and snapping in the cold, the whisper of snowflakes, and occasional clacking of tree branches when the breeze kicked up. It all formed a wild, unforgiving sort of peace. A vast, eternal beauty.