Wolf of Shadows

The cold, red silk fell like water over Donn’s hand as he moved the drapery aside from the tower window. It was a prison with no iron bars—magic warded the windows and the only door; the walls were of stone. Knowing the fate planned for him, he would have preferred to stay in the dungeons. Could she even find him here? That was his only hope of survival. A slender hope at best, but his life had been in danger since the day he was born. If his half-brother Tormod had not found a use for him, he would be dead now.

Donn was not his real name. Royal bastards were never given true names. Donn meant “the dark one,” a reference to his unusual dark hair. His reflection in the diamond panes of the window was just a pale face, surrounded by shadow, as he gazed out from the tower to the forest and mountains beyond. Waiting, and despairing. She promised she would return ...

He shivered, his breath visible in the cold. The clothes he wore were much too thin for the chilly room—cast-off formal attire, long out of fashion but still smelling faintly of the musky perfume used by the former owner. Tormod had ordered Donn be dressed well to impress the envoy of the desert people, and reassure them of his royal blood. If he were seen in his usual rags, it might provoke awkward questions—and more importantly, the loss of the horses the desert people had brought in trade.

A glimpse of motion outside made him stiffen, and Donn leaned closer, staring intently through the icy window panes. A grey wolf stood at the edge of the dark forest, barely visible in the shadows next to the moonlit snow. Its jaws was open, as if it laughed. Donn's breath frosted the window, obscuring his view. Impatiently he scrubbed the frost away, ignoring the warning twinges from the wards, but when he looked again the wolf had gone. He grabbed the window latch in desperation, but agonizing pain from the fully active wards soon made him release it.

She could open the wards. He’d helped her do it, and she had promised. And he had believed her.

Closing his eyes, he drew his knees up and rested his face against them. He should never have believed he could escape the castle. If she had not come, he would not have been caught so soon. If she had not come, he would not have hoped.

The sound of approaching footsteps alerted him that he was no longer alone, and he stared stonily out the window. The glass reflected the approaching figure of a minor courtier famous for gossip. The cruelty of Tormod meant the wards of Donn’s prison were only for him. Everyone else could come and go as they pleased.

"But a short time until you wed the desert leader! At least you will be well away from all the snow and cold,. You must be impatient to go."

Donn said nothing, hoping the man would take offense and leave.

"And of course, as befits your...connection to the royal house, you will be her principal husband. I can’t imagine the others, barbarians as they are, will be serious competition even for you."

This promising lead, and several others, were equally ignored. Unable to pry the smallest tidbit of information from him, the courtier's spite flared.

"They are ignorant, the desert people. What will you do when she learns you have no name?"

This bitter parting cut won only a listless glance, and the courtier left in great annoyance.

Donn sighed. The courtier was correct; the desert people knew little of the customs here. The courtier was equally ignorant of theirs—unlike Donn. He had taken refuge many times in the dusty rooms of the archives, where the members of the court never went. He devoured any account of life outside the castle walls, desperate for escape if only in his mind. One such account was of the customs of the desert people.

He would be treated kindly, lack no luxury—once they had blinded him to prevent his escape. And after two years the desert leader would require a new principal husband. Or, more correctly translated, “blood sacrifice.”

The hunter had come in the season of Redleaf, guiding a storyteller who had lost his way in Longwall Forest. Her profession was clear from the longbow and shaggy grey pelt she wore over her shoulders.

It was the fourth year of the king's madness, and only tales, new tales, could calm his rages. All the corners of the kingdom sent their best tellers of tales, but fewer and fewer came each year. This storyteller came from a village of the fisher people, on a bare stony island. An old, twisted man, he seemed lost so far from the sound of the sea.

Donn had felt restless that day, sensing an unsettling disturbance in the atmosphere of the castle. He traced that disturbance to the Audience chamber, where the king gibbered and thrashed on the throne, tied down with heavy silken cords. Tormod, the unofficial regent, stood below the dais as the travelers were brought in, the old man leaning on the hunter woman. Donn watched them from the concealing shadows of the gallery pillars even though it was dangerous for him to go so close. In his sixteen years he had learned that it was always safer to stay out of sight, to steal his food from the kitchen instead of taking his place at meals, to sleep anywhere but his bed.

The Audience was not so much a room as a clearing in the thicket of columns that supported the dome. Clusters of slender pillars stood about in such a way that there was no straight path to any doorway, nor was any path indicated as more important than another. As the hunter went by his hiding place, a small breeze, carrying the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke, cut through the must and florid perfume of the court. That must be what Outside smells like. Donn shifted to see her more clearly. Her rough, ash-white hair had bone beads woven in it. He could almost see the invisible lines of power bend around her disturbing presence.

There were others with business before the storyteller and his hunter escort, so Donn had time to watch them both. The hunter stood out from the gaudy court brocades and silks like a barbaric ghost, all in shades of grey and white. A black bow was slung across her back, a belt quiver held black-fletched arrows. He tried to imagine what it would be like Outside, never being surrounded by walls, but his imagination failed him. He was certain, however, that he would prefer it.

He had stared some time when she suddenly turned her head and looked in his direction, the only motion during her long wait. He froze, his heart hammering. It was impossible she had seen him, the shadows were too thick, but still he found himself moving cautiously to another group of pillars further back.

When at last their turn came, the hunter remained silent as the old man quavered his name and business. Tormod thanked him urbanely, asked him to begin that very day, commanded him to ask for anything he required—while his gaze never left the hunter. Donn inhaled sharply. The dark aura that he always saw about Tormod had increased, and seemed to roil around him.

Tormod asked the hunter to name a payment, but she shook her head. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Then you must enjoy the hospitality my father offers, as befits your service to him." He gestured his dismissal. As she walked away the storyteller turned his dismayed glance from the crazed king to her, despairing, as if he finally comprehended the nature of his task.

As the hunter left the Audience Tormod gestured to a guard, and Donn saw his lips form the word “gate.” His heart hammering, Donn darted away from the central court through the maze of columns, slowing his pace when he found her. Like all newcomers to the castle, she had been caught by the deliberate confusion of the columned halls and deceptive corridors, and she stood at the crossroads of several passageways which had nothing to distinguish them. Once again she seemed to sense his presence, and turned to face him.

Her eyes were forest green, like jade, set under winging back brows. Around her neck a bone gorget, inscribed with runes, hung from a leather thong. Looking at them, he felt the hairs on his neck rise and a chill run over him. As he stared, wordless, a flicker of amusement passed over her face.

"You must run, hide," he gasped finally. "Tormod will be creating a sending soon to hold you."

"Why would he do this? I did nought but bring the old man." Her voice had an odd, burring lilt to it.

Donn gestured wildly. "I don't know what he wants; does it matter? I could see it building around him, and he has sent a guard to find you as well. You have to get away from the Audience."

"Show me to the gate." All amusement had left her face.

"He’s ordered the gate closed by now. You can't get out." Suddenly he felt the itching, crawling sensation that preceded a sending. He whirled, and saw the almost-specks from the edge of his vision. "Run!" He darted for one of the passages that led away from the spell, grabbing her arm as he went. She pulled free, but followed close behind.

The passage he had chosen was not the best for avoiding a quick sending. We have to get up, out of its path. Down this corridor, the second door...there!

An addition to the castle, centuries ago, had met the older section where the floors were at different levels. An old doorway, leading to a small room piled with rubble and unused for centuries, now stood more than halfway up the wall. Enough of the room remained to be useful, though, especially after Djeragh had.... He pulled his mind angrily away from the memory.

"In there!" he gasped, indicating the hole near the ceiling as they dashed into the room. He leaped, grabbed, and pulled himself in the hiding place and out of the way. The hunter followed, negotiating the entrance with fluid grace.

Donn wiggled back to the mouth of the hole and looked out cautiously. In no time at all, he sensed the not-quite-seen speckles of the sending floating down the corridor. They had been lucky—a few seconds more and it would have found them. The sending floated lazily, washing nearly halfway up the wall. Tormod was using a considerable amount of power, then. Donn put his head on his arms and tried to recover his breath.

"What is it, the thing you run from?" He thought he saw a flash of green light from the darkness where she was.

"A spell. To find and hold people."

"I saw nothing."

He sighed. "Most can't. The only reason I've stayed alive so long is that I can." He peered out again. "I see the power, I think. Tormod's got a lot around him, always. There's power in the charm you wear. I just see it, and know it's different."

When the sending dissipated, they moved cautiously out into the corridor. At the hunter's insistence, Donn led her through the mazelike passageways, down stairs concealed in corners, through narrow, unimportant looking doors, to the courtyard of the outer bailey. The door that led to the courtyard was so small they had to bend double to go through, and they emerged behind a wall that hid a malodorous pile of garbage.

The hunter stood, blinking in the light, and looked about. The gates were indeed closed, and soldiers manned the postern towers and stood before the gates themselves. Other travelers, caught unawares, protested fruitlessly.

"A strange hospitality, that keeps a guest regardless," she commented.

"Tormod loves to wield the power he holds," Donn said quietly. “He wants to keep you here.”

"I would be in the trees again."

"There are some trees within the walls. Not many, but...I'll show you."

Always watchful, he led her past the old, crumbling stables and around the oldest castle tower to what had once been a pleasure garden. When the outer wall had been built, centuries ago, it encircled the craggy top of the hill the castle rested on, enclosing also a spring and a small grove of trees. The grove had diminished over time but the spring remained, with clear, icy water welling up from deep within the earth. It was rarely visited, Donn knew, but still they waited in the shadows as the twilight deepened until it was clear the grove was abandoned.

The hunter dipped her cupped hands in the water and drank. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she gazed about the tiny grove. "The trees have scarce power to live, here. It is no good place to bide."

"There aren't many here who choose to stay. Those with power to leave, do so. I would," he added bitterly. She turned her gaze to him.

"You have power," she said, her voice matter-of-fact. "Else your mind would have been broken as the Seated Chieftain's was. The darkness in this place can be felt."

Donn did not know how to respond to this. She means the King, he realized, astonished. This place drove him mad? Yet another reason to get Outside.

"Where do you live, then?"

"No one place. Wherever the forest runs."

"Because you hunt....what?"

She smiled, showing strong white teeth. "Many things." He swallowed, his throat gone dry. "I thank you for your aid," she said. "Tell me what you fear in this place, and I will do what I can to aid you in turn. Why does this Tormod wish you ill?"

Donn gave a humorless laugh, and collapsed by the well. The hunter sat more gracefully in the shadow of the trees, seeming relaxed, but he sensed her alertness.

"Do you know how the new king is chosen? Tormod has several brothers, each as dangerous as he is. After the death of the king there are sudden illnesses, accidents—and only one heir survives. But before the old king dies, the heirs practice on the bastards. They must be discreet...we are supposed to be half-royal, after all, and one heir would use such a mistake to banish another. And sometimes we fight back. My sister Djeragh took Tormod's best assassin with her when he pushed her from the walls..." He stopped, unable to continue. A distant part of him marveled at how sharp the pain was still, how his heart still wailed her name.

"I am sorry for your sister's death. May her spirit be free," the hunter said, gently. The light had vanished from the sky, and he could no longer see her face in the shadows. "Are there other killers, then, that you fear?"

"Tormod believes the king will die soon. He keeps his men close by him now, and so do the others. His magic is the strongest, but even he cannot afford to create sendings at whim. They will not seek me out, I think, until the king dies."

"And then?"

"And then I die too."

The next morning the hunter was nowhere to be found. The gates had not been opened, and troops of guards searched throughout the castle. Donn watched the unusual activity fearfully, afraid someone might have seen them together and blame him for her escape. He took great care to stay out of view, even going to a high nook in a ruined tower to avoid a possible sending. He wondered if the hunter had achieved the impossible and successfully escaped the castle.

That evening Donn found himself by the well again. He stared blindly at the gently rippling water, wondering where the hunter had gone, what it would be like to be free to travel the forest.

A faint sound of stealthy movement roused him from his musing, and he looked up to see a moving shadow in the shade of the grove. A shadow that fit the shape of a wolf, and in a blaze of fear he scrambled to his feet and ran. He lost his footing on the slippery rock by the well and fell hard. He rolled to face his attacker...but the wolf was gone. The hunter was leaning against the oldest oak, looking at him in mild puzzlement.

"The wolf! Where is it?"

Her mouth twitched. "I have seen no wolf. Are you hurt?"

He got up slowly. His side was sore where he had fallen on the rock, but he was otherwise unharmed. Embarrassment replaced his earlier fear. Why had he been so sure there was a wolf? A wolf could never scale the massive walls, or enter by the only gate. He hadn't actually seen it, only a shadow...which must have been the hunter herself.

"The castle guard are looking for you. How did you avoid them?"

She shrugged, reaching down to pick up something ragged-looking from the ground. "I did not choose they should find me."

His further questions were simply ignored. Moving further into the shadow of the grove, she prepared a fire. It was tiny, and gave no smoke, but it was enough to cook the birds she had brought. Donn's fingers were greasy when they were done, and he was sure he had swallowed several small feathers, but it was the best food he had ever eaten.

"Have you tried to leave?" the hunter said suddenly, into the silence.

Donn stared at her, scornful. "How? There is only one gate to the outer bailey and curtain wall, and it is always guarded. There is a spell there, too; I've seen it. The walls are said to be bespelled as well."

"Yet birds fly in at will," she noted, twirling a feather between her fingers.

He shrugged, irritated. "Maybe the spell is for humans. Anyway, I can't climb it to find out, it's too high and smooth." Then, suspicion slowly dawning, "You can get out, can't you. That's why they didn't find you today. How did you do it?"

"I could not get out." Her voice was sharp. "I have ways of concealment, but they are not ways I can teach you." She turned away, pulling the wolf pelt around her shoulders more tightly. Concealing the gorget around her neck.

“Is it a charm that you wear? Is that how you remain hidden?” Her green eyes narrowed at him. “I’m not trying to pry at your secrets. I just...even if I can’t escape, I want to stay alive.”

The hunter’s posture relaxed. “It was made for me alone, bound to my name,” she said, her fingers touching the bone gorget. “If you wore it, it would do nothing for you.”

They were silent for a while, then Donn asked hesitantly, "What is it like, Outside?"

He managed to find out more about her, despite her laconic replies. Her people did not give out their true names to outsiders; she did not seem to think his lack of name worthy of comment. The name she used was Bayn. Her knife was some lustrous black stone that had been chipped to form an edge, and the points of her arrows were made of the same material. Sometimes the firelight would reflect in her eyes as a green flame, like a night-beast's would. He fell asleep wondering why.

He woke by the well next morning, stiff and chilled. There was no sign of Bayn, the fire, or the birds they had eaten. He drifted about the hidden ways of the castle once more, feeling confused and edgy, as if something important were about to happen. When night fell he went to the well, carefully seating himself to face away from the grove, looking only at the water.

Not much longer after that he found Bayn had appeared beside him. She was even more taciturn than before, and restless.

"Why is it that the storytellers are brought here? Why does this Tormod care if the Seated Chieftain raves or not?" she asked finally.

Donn raised his eyes from the rippled surface of the water. "Because of the wards. They are bound to the king, linked to him. When he raves, they become dangerous and unpredictable. They can overpower the castle wards and then no one can leave, not even Tormod."

Bayn stared at him. "What wards are these, that the king has?"

"Wards of personal protection. He cannot be killed by steel or magic, and the wards can also join with other magics to further shield him."

"Other magics—this could include the castle wards? Like the shield above?"

Donn shrugged. "Of course. That is what has happened, at least at the gate. I'm not sure about anything above the castle."

Her fist struck her palm, and her eyes gleamed with green fire. "I am sure. It would not respond to Tormod's name. Quickly, what is the name of the king?"

He stared, not understanding. "His regnal name is Koron..."

She mouthed the word, then shook her head. "No, the name he was given at birth. His true name."

Donn wrinkled his forehead. "I have never heard it. He was king well before I was...wait." Memories were coming to him, of names, a scroll. Now he remembered. He had seen an old genealogy in the archives, from the time of the king before. “It may be written down.”

In a sudden movement she was on one knee before him, her face grim. “I must know this name. True names have power, did you know this? With his true name, I can open the shield.”

“But...but the gate will still be guarded, and there is no other way through the walls.”

The corners of Bayn’s mouth turned up. “May they continue to think so. Where can I find the name?”

The archive was near the central keep. If a sending was invoked, even he would not be able to escape it. If she entered the castle again, Tormod’s sendings would find her. If he went instead, he risked being found by the searching guards.

I must go. Even if I cannot escape, she will be free.

Donn stood, feeling cold. “I will find it for you.”

Soldiers were everywhere inside the castle. Donn nearly abandoned the attempt several times, crouched in the shadows and holding his breath. There was nowhere to hide near the archives, unfortunately, and a soldier was patrolling the corridor. Donn waited until the man was at the far end, back turned, and then ran with all the speed he could muster.

Inside the archive, he leaned against the closed door and tried to stifle his gasping breath. If the soldier had seen the door closing or had heard anything, he was done for. But as time passed and no shouts were heard, Donn shuddered with relief and forced himself to move.

It was dangerous for him to stay too long. A sending for Bayn would not hold him, but Tormod would still know he was there. Donn rummaged through the scrolls, not caring if they were disordered. With the dust so thick, it was clear no one had been here in a long time and no change would be noticed.

Finally he found it, just as he remembered. An old scroll, with the red caps indicating a royal record, the leather ties ragged with age. He opened it up with haste, running his finger down the branches of the genealogy, remembering this king had been the oldest of his brothers. And there it was. Rieghe.

Donn opened the door of the archive a crack, listening for the sound of footsteps. The corridor was silent, and after a moment he dared to look out. The soldier was gone.

Hardly daring to believe his luck, he ran. It was only when he had nearly reached the crowded bustle of the courtyard that he realized he had not seen any soldiers—and then it was too late. They were behind him, and coming through the courtyard gate, and there was nowhere to hide or run.

They dragged him out to the courtyard, yelling and cursing. The noise startled a flock of birds into the air with a gust of wings. Not knowing why, Donn shouted, “I found it! It’s R—” and then the blow sent him into darkness.

When he awoke, he was in a dark cell on a pile of filthy straw. One leg bore a shackle with a chain just long enough for him to touch the bars of the window high on one wall, or the wooden door to his cell. His entire body ached, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He had failed. Bayn was still trapped, and he was captured.

He hoped they would kill him quickly.

The light of dawn filtered through the barred window, brightened, then faded with night. Donn closed his eyes and sought the oblivion of sleep, but he could not rest.

“I heard your words.”

Donn jumped to his feet with a rattle of chains, his heart pounding. The voice...Bayn? Had she been captured too?

“Where are you?” And then he saw a glint of green light at the window. She had not been captured—but how had she managed to reach the prison window? “Did the birds tell you?” He was suddenly aware of how strange that sounded, but somehow he had known when he saw the birds, one different than the others, that Bayn would know what had happened.

A small, soft laugh. “Ah, you see well. Yes, I hear what the birds hear. You found the name?”

"Yes. I tried to say it before they hit me," he said, moving as close to the window as his chain would allow. "His name is Rieghe."

There was silence, and the green glint vanished for a moment. Then he saw the white flash of her smile from the shadows. "Oh yes. That is the name they obey." She sounded exultant, like she had sighted prey.

“You can leave now?”

"Yes. But do not think I will abandon you—you have given me the key to my freedom, and I will do the same for you. But you must trust me. A shaman could discover your true name, but I cannot. Will you give me a drop of your blood, to be free?"

He could not help laughing. “They plan to take it all in time. Escape, and take one drop with you to freedom.”’

“What time remains for you?”

It was actually safer for him now, in the cell. No chance of accidents, and the princes would have spies to watch the spies of the others. “While the king lives, I have time. But I doubt he will see another year.”

“I will be swift, then. Hold out your hand.” He did, and he felt something sharp prick his finger. The shadow at the window shifted. "I must leave now. I swear by my name, I will return for you and set you free."

“But how...”

Something pale fell through the bars of the window, and he caught it. A feather. He thought he heard the soft beating of heavy wings outside, but it soon disappeared and Bayn did not speak again. She was gone.

He held the feather up to the moonlight. It was white and square-tipped, banded with grey-brown flecks like wood ash. He put it in his pocket with great care.

A month passed with no sign, then two. He had nothing to do but wait and hope. Would she come back? How had she left? What kind of help could she bring that would let him escape as well?

Sometimes he overheard scraps of gossip from the court. The king was now bedridden, and one of the princes had been found dead, probably of poison. The others must think the king would die very soon, then. Occasionally he wondered why he still had hope. When they came at First-snow to tell him of the desert leader, it was almost a relief. He would have something else to think about. But then they took him from the dungeon, and his fragile hope faded away. How could Bayn find him now?

The wedding, by proxy, was to take place tomorrow, on the solstice. Donn stood before the window of his room and glanced at the latch, wondering if he could overcome the wards by throwing himself through the glass. Had even occurred to Tormod he might choose to die, or did he simply not care? He had the horses now. This was Donn’s last chance of escaping his fate. The desert people would blind him as soon as he was in their hands.

All was still, the deep azure sky and the moonlit snow, save for one pale shape that beat slowly towards the tower. A familiar shape, of a bird he had seen before. He felt a stir of mild interest as the thing came closer, becoming visible as a great white owl with feathers flecked with grey like wood ash. Closer it came until it fluttered at his window, beating against the panes.

A glimmer of magic washed over the window. When he put his hand against the frame he did not feel the slightest twinge of the wards. Calmly he unlatched the window and opened it wide as the owl glided in on great, soundless wings. He turned to shut the window against the chill.

"A gift for you," said a familiar lilting voice behind him, and he glanced down to see a bone bracelet, carved with runes, that was being offered to him by a white-haired woman with forest-green eyes. Bayn, as she had promised, had returned. "I fear it was a long time in making...but no wall will hold you again."

The minor courtier made sure he was present when the castle folk unlocked the door in the morning. He wanted to see the bastard’s face, to mock him one last time. There was little else to entertain him these days.

He gaped with the others when they found the casement window opened wide, windblown snow frosting the sill. The room was completely empty—no sign remained of the occupant, no indication of his fate. Some of the assembled company stood frozen in consternation, while the rest were all surprise, wonder, and speculation.

In the midst of the babble the minor courtier stepped to the window, idly noting a small black feather that rocked on the sill, stirred by a tiny breeze. He looked down to the base of the tower and the snow-covered ground below. No crumpled bodies, but he did see the tracks of two large creatures in the snow a short distance away.

"Wolves." He shuddered, and moved away from the window.

THE END

If you enjoyed this story, please check out the rest of Sabrina Chase’s work at chaseadventures.com.