by Tanya Huff
Mirian spun on one heel and looked up. Pack member, definitely. Amused, fortunately. The same dark eyes as Lord Hagen, his hair the pale gray his fur would be and short enough the points of both ears rose through it.
One pale gray brow rose. “Your eyes have no color, but your scent…” He leaned toward her, nostrils flared. “What makes you smell so good?”
His proximity made her cheeks flush and her heart beat faster. He was close enough she could see the puckered edges of the scar that ran down his cheek over his jaw to disappear under his collar, and he wasn’t young, thirty at least, with a fan of lines bracketing his eyes.
When it appeared he wanted an answer, she managed a shrug and lifted her plate up into his line of sight. “I have no idea, my lord. Perhaps it’s the beef.”
He blinked, looked down at the food, then laughed and straightened, putting a little more distance between them. “Perhaps it is. I am Jaspyr Hagen.”
The Pack Leader’s bloodline. Her mother would be thrilled. And insufferable. Mirian sent up a quick prayer to the Lord and Lady that her mother wasn’t watching.
“And you are?”
“Mirian Maylin, my lord.”
His nostrils flared again. “Would you share your food with me, Mirian Maylin?”
There were undertones to that question that raised goose bumps on Mirian’s arms and a look in his dark eyes that made it hard to breathe. Mouth suddenly dry, she wet her lips, realized he was watching the movement of her tongue, and thrust the plate toward him. “I would be honored to share my food, Lord Hagen.”
“Jaspyr.” He picked up one of the beef sticks. “Or people will think you’re talking to my cousin.”
His teeth were very white.
Well, of course they were.
“Jaspyr, what are…? Hello!” One of the young men who’d been at the end of the buffet charged around the pillar, and only Pack reflexes kept him from knocking her over. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. “Wow, you smell amazing.”
“It’s the beef,” Mirian sighed.
Jaspyr laughed again and Mirian felt her mouth twitching in response. When the younger man leaned closer, Jaspyr grabbed his shoulder, turned him away from the pillar, and gave him a little shove. “Go away, Bayor.”
Bayor kept turning until he faced them again, looking startled. “It’s like that?”
“It could be.”
“She has no mage marks.”
“She’s standing right here,” Mirian snapped.
Both men turned to look at her, Jaspyr smiling, Bayor frowning slightly.
“Jaspyr, Ryder wants you to…” The young man racing around the pillar slid to a stop, one hand clutching Bayor’s jacket for balance. His eyes widened and his nose twitched. “Is that her scent?”
Mirian rolled her eyes. This was getting ridiculous.
“Yes,” Jaspyr told him. “It’s her. Now take Bayor and go.”
At first Mirian thought it was Bayor growling, and then she realized the sound came from the far side of the lobby, by the doors.
A woman screamed.
The crowds parted, and a black wolf raced through Bercarit’s finest, straight for Lord Hagen. Claws skittering on the marble, he managed to stop at the last moment and become a young man, covered in mud and bruises, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath.
“Tomas!” Lord Hagen closed the distance between them, gripping the young man’s shoulders.
“The Imperials, they’re across the border.” Voice rough, Tomas sounded on the edge of tears. “Everyone is dead. The 1st, the Hunt Pack. Ryder, they’re using silver!”
Chapter Two
DAWN TINTED THE MOUNTAINS pink and gold, and chaos reigned on the cobblestone street outside Mirian’s parents’ house. Those servants who hadn’t run off to be with family of their own loaded and unloaded carriages and wagons, trying to find room for one more trunk or one more family heirloom that couldn’t be left behind. Children cried, adults shouted, and through more than one open door came the sound of breaking glass.
Mirian, unable to spend another moment listening to her mother scream at her maid, stood on the walk in her traveling clothes tasting I told you so! on the back of her tongue. She wondered if she had time to go to the Lady’s Grove at the end of the street, took two steps in that direction, then decided that with the Imperial army already over the border, it was too late for prayer. Cook had taken the little round Lady of the Hearth with her, but as far as Mirian knew, the Lord’s Regard remained half hidden in the small back garden.
“Do you see him?”
She half turned as her mother came out onto the porch, confused for a moment about which him.
“Your father, Mirian! Do you see your father?”
“No, not yet.”
The circles under her eyes nearly the same green as the tint still on the lids, Mirian’s mother clutched a pair of silver candlesticks closer to her chest. “How could it be taking him so long?”
Mirian had no answer. Not that it mattered.
“We could be murdered in our beds, you unnatural child! How can you be so calm?”
Calm? That would do, she supposed. Although it felt anticipatory, more like the calm before the storm. “We aren’t in our beds, Mother.”
“Why would that matter?”
She looked so distraught, Mirian moved closer to the house. “We’re in no immediate danger. The Imperial army won’t advance further until dawn.”
“You can’t know that!”
“I can; it’s obvious. There was no moon last night, and starlight alone isn’t enough to move men and equipment over unfamiliar ground.”
“Obvious?” The snort had the force of imminent hysteria behind it. “So you’ve decided to be a general now you’ve failed as a mage? Perhaps Lord Hagen should have sent you to the border!”
Mirian took a deep breath and abandoned logic for reassurance her mother would actually believe. “Lord Hagen said the carriages would leave at dawn—all the carriages, his family’s as well—so he must believe the Imperial army won’t reach the city until much later.”
A double blink and a deep breath. Then: “Well, if Lord Hagen believes…” Hysteria averted, grip on the candlesticks visibly eased, her mother ran back inside.
Although the city was by no means calm, Lord Hagen had managed to prevent more than just her mother’s panic. After his brother’s dramatic entrance at the opera house and his declaration of defeat, Mirian knew he’d had mere moments to take control of the situation before it descended into chaos. He’d handed his brother into the care of the red-haired Healer-mage suddenly at his side, looked to his wife, and said levelly, “Can you be ready to leave for Trouge by dawn?”
Lady Hagen had nodded. “I can.”
She’d made certain their voices had risen above the shocked silence and filled all the available space, leaving no room for panic to grow into.
The Pack Leader had swept a calm gaze over the watching crowd, his tone and body language declaring, I am in control of this. There is no reason for you to fear. Common sense said at that point he was in control of nothing save his own reaction, but, even knowing that, Mirian had felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
“Carriages heading for the capital will leave at dawn. The Trouge Road will be closed to all but foot traffic until then. Go. Make ready.”
Had he not made it clear his family would remain in the city, the wealthy would have rioted. Although no one had asked for her opinion, Mirian thought his reasoning was sound. Panicked drivers in fast carriages on a narrow, winding road at night could only be a recipe for disaster. One accident would block the way and destroy any hope of an orderly evacuation.
Now, it was dawn and then some. Mirian wondered if Lady Hagen had left yet.
She could see nearly to the boulevard by the time she spotted her father hurrying home. The other families on the street were gone.
“The cabbies are using their cabs to take their families from t
he city,” he said, when he was close enough. “As long as they weren’t taking the Trouge Road, they’ve been permitted to leave. There’s none about. I had to walk from the bank.”
He sounded so indignant about not having a cab at hand when required, that Mirian nearly laughed.
“Oh, Kollin!” Arms clasped around the ornate porcelain vase that usually sat on the mantel in the morning room, Mirian’s mother burst out of the house followed by Nyia, her maid, and Burrows who closed the door and locked it behind him. “Kollin! Please, tell me we’re leaving. I can’t take much more of this!”
“We’re leaving. Get in the carriage, Lirraka.” He plucked the vase from her hands as she hurried past and handed it to Mirian. “Leave the ugly thing for the empire,” he muttered as he turned and followed his wife, coat flapping around his calves.
Mirian set the vase on the path, straightened, and frowned. She could hear singing from the boulevard, rising up over the sound of marching feet—the remainder of the 2nd heading out to the border. She hadn’t known so many soldiers were still in the city.
The younger Lord Hagen had said the Hunt Pack and everyone in the 1st was dead. While that couldn’t possibly be accurate, there had to have been death enough for him to believe it.
So why were these men singing?
At first she thought the creature running toward her was a small pony, escaped from the soldiers. It was the size of a small pony, yes, but the shape was wrong—too narrow, too pointed, too…much a Pack member racing down the center of the street, moving so quickly it seemed his paws never quite touched the cobblestones. The early morning light made him look more silver than gray.
He was almost close enough to touch when he changed. “When this is over…” The growl smoothed out of his voice with every word. “…and we have a moment to ourselves, you and I will have to talk.”
She kept her eyes on his face. Mostly. There were lines and shadows there hadn’t been last night at the Opera House. Lines at the edges of his mouth. Shadows in and under his eyes. He looked older. He looked like he hadn’t slept. His intensity was still…disconcerting. “We have a moment now,” she said.
“No. Promises made before battles bring bad luck. But after…” He grinned, showing teeth. “After the battle, Mirian Maylin who smells amazing, I will find you and we will talk.”
Mirian took a deep breath. He smelled like sweat, just on the edge of becoming rank and she wished she had his nose, his certainty. But he made her feel as though she trembled on the edge of an abyss and that uncertainty would have to be certainty enough. Discarding half a dozen responses, she reached out, laid two fingertips against the damp skin over his heart, and said, “Yes.”
That seemed to be answer enough. A heartbeat later, the wolf stood where the man had been and a heartbeat after that, he turned and raced back toward the boulevard.
She watched him for a moment, then pivoted on one heel, walked to the carriage, accepted Jon the coachman’s hand with a smile, and settled into the seat beside her father.
“Mirian!” Her mother’s eyes were so wide the whites showed all the way around. “That was Jaspyr Hagen. Cousin to the Pack Leader!”
Mirian discarded another half a dozen responses, wiped damp palms on her skirt, and settled for, “I know.”
* * *
“You will stop them at the border.”
“Is that an order, my love?”
“It is. And here’s another…” Danika wrapped her hands behind Ryder’s neck and locked her eyes with his. “…return safely and soon.”
He bent his head and kissed her, then buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent. It was something he’d done a hundred, a thousand times over the years of their marriage, and Danika refused to read anything more into it now.
She let him go when he stepped away, even though holding on seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do. When he changed, she stroked the soft fur on his muzzle and murmured, “Do try to stay out of the burrs, beloved. You know how much you hate having your tail brushed.”
He licked her hand, pushed his face up against her belly, then pivoted on one rear foot and raced along the wide boulevard that led out of the city, toward the border. Tomas and Jaspyr fell in behind, with them the other four males who’d stayed in Bercarit to help maintain order.
“Lady Hagen, we need to leave.”
Lady Berin. Lord Berin had gone to the border. Although Ryder wouldn’t have sent him, he hadn’t stopped the old wolf.
Danika raised a hand to acknowledge she’d heard. The Pack’s carriages were among the last remaining in the city, the five of the Mage-pack tasked to guard the rear of the column. She whispered, “I love you.” Sent it on a breeze to Ryder. Turned, much as he had given the differences between two legs and four, and took her place in the carriage.
* * *
“I can’t see how this’ll hold anything, Cap.”
Before Lieutenant Lord Geurin could find words to go with his scowl, Reiter carefully gathered the gold net dangling between two of Chard’s fingers, and piled it into the soldier’s palm. “You just have to throw it, Private. None of us has to understand how it works.”
“The tangles are ancient artifacts,” the lieutenant snapped. “They’ll do their jobs if we do ours.”
“But…”
Reiter raised a hand to cut off Chard’s protest. “Up the tree, throw the tangle among the carriages, down the tree, take the neutralized mages to the empire. Simple. Now, get your ass up the tree.”
As he settled into the underbrush by the side of Trouge Road, Reiter had to admit the Soothsayers had chosen the perfect place for an ambush. The road back to Bercarit was visible for some distance—allowing them to identify the last carriages—then climbed steeply, forcing the carriages to slow, the sharp turn at the top of the hill cutting them off from the rest of the evacuation. While there’d been signs of lumbering back away from the road, massive oaks still pressed in close on either side, providing stable platforms for the men with the tangles.
Reiter had to admit, he saw Chard’s point about the artifacts. The delicate gold nets didn’t look like they could hold an infant let alone an adult, high-level mage.
He’d known mages when he was a boy—an elderly woman with brown-flecked eyes whose garden fed half the village, a legless veteran with a few blue flecks who could make himself heard over distance—but he hadn’t seen one for years. There were probably a few selling their services in the capital because everything was for sale in Karis, but as far as he knew, none served under the Imperial banner. Science had replaced magic in the army. When soldiers carried fire-starters in their pockets, they had no need to waste time seeking out a Fire-mage. Even Colonel Korshan’s blasted rockets blew up over enemy lines more often than not.
Science could do anything mage-craft could and, more importantly, anyone could use it.
Given that he had six men in trees holding ancient magical artifacts, Reiter saw the irony in believing this fight had anything to do with the rise of intelligence and training over random talents caused by a lucky dice roll at birth.
He’d just checked with Sergeant Black that everyone was in place when the first of the evacuees from Bercarit appeared, the cursing that came with them in Pyrahn working-class accents. Twice refugees, the poor bastards on the run again before the might of the Imperial army. Able to be first on the road because they could carry everything they owned on their backs. The funny thing was—although probably not funny for them, Reiter admitted—for the most part, they ran from rumor. While opposing armies were destroyed with brutal and practiced efficiency, the emperor preferred his conquered work force alive and working.
Reiter settled more comfortably behind his screen of brush, aware that around him his men were doing the same. Their orders concerned the last few carriages only; the rest could pass.
* * *
Tomas had wanted to return to the border immediately, but Ryder had ordered him to eat and sleep. His protests had been ignor
ed; the Pack Leader’s word was law. So, hungry and exhausted, he’d done as he was told. He woke just before dawn, remembered Harry was dead, and he couldn’t believe he had to wait longer still. In fur, he watched Jaspyr head off on personal business—as though anyone with a nose didn’t know it was about a woman. He watched Ryder deal with half a hundred stupid, unimportant, petty details. Lip curled, he watched him finally say good-bye to his wife, and change to fur.
Ryder snapped at him as he passed, but Tomas didn’t yield, merely fell in on his left flank as Jaspyr took the right, four distant cousins following behind. Once he was moving, the need that had been chewing at him, the need to return and make the bastards who’d killed Harry pay, began to ease. By the time they left the city, he’d given himself over to the run.
Noses to the west, Ryder led them across country, cutting off the two large loops that eased the Border Road for carriages. Tomas had no clear memory of the route he’d run the night before, but they crossed his scent so instinct must have led him straight and true.
He heard the artillery before he smelled the gunpowder. The wind was against them. Didn’t matter. The Imperial army stank, but their noses were useless.
He tried not to think of what they were running toward. Tried not to think of bodies blown to pieces. Of silver slamming bloody holes through fur. Of Harry. He thought of running, and of revenge, and how Ryder would fix this.
Then they came out of the woods, and the blood scent hit him like a physical blow. Blood. And shit. And fear. And memory. He stumbled, but Ryder ran on, so Tomas pushed the terror back and followed. He could see the Aydori line, shattered in places, the living sheltering behind bulwarks of the dead. He could see the Imperial army advancing, another score of infantry in reserve to replace every man shot down. He could hear gunshots and cursing and an Air-mage screaming on the breeze.
There were bodies in fur where the dead lay thickest and death too thick in the air to know if any Pack still lived.
He saw Imperial cavalry charge the exposed Aydori flank. They’d held the horses back then, until they thought the Pack was dead. Hackles up, Ryder raced to intercept, Jaspyr and the cousins following. But Tomas had caught another scent. Knowledge warred with instinct. Knowledge won, sending him away from his Pack Leader toward enemy lines.