TOUCH OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

Braden couldn’t speak. Grandfather’s stare held him like the mantraps set in the woods to catch human poachers, and his tongue was leaden.

“You will not lie to me again. Today you will track down your brother and bring him to me. Then you shall administer the punishment the count himself selects. Go.”

Behind those words lay no room for negotiation, no latitude for compassion or mercy. The lesson was meant not for Quentin, but for Braden himself. It would be fashioned so as never to be forgotten.

Braden turned and left the room, his mind a blank. He followed the landing to a door that led into several twisting, narrow corridors, hidden stairs, and a back entrance used by the servants. There he paused, scenting the evening; autumn was coming, and he could smell hay and heather and sheep and the smooth-flowing waters of the river below the great sloping park.

He discarded his clothes behind the shrubbery along the wall and Changed with a single thought. On four legs he ran through the gardens, past the open park and into the wood an ancestor had begun and Tiberius had nurtured, until now it was far greater than any private wood in northern England.

As he ran, leaping the burn and dodging pine and oak and ash, he ignored the spoor of rabbit and fox and all the other small creatures that shared the wood. There was only one he hunted. And soon enough he found the familiar scent. But it was Rowena who met him, her eyes very wide and her face pale. Her skirt was muddied, her hair snarled with twigs and leaves.

“What will they do to him?” she whispered.

Braden Changed, and Rowena quickly looked away.

Her modesty had always been exaggerated, but Braden had no time for her almost-human sensibilities.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Did you come to get him?”

“I came to tell him to stay in the woods.” Braden wrapped his arms around his chest, though he hardly felt the chill in the air. “Grandfather told me to bring him back. The count is to decide his punishment. But if Quentin stays away until the Russians leave, maybe it won’t be so bad.”

Rowena bit her lip. “You’ll get into trouble if you don’t bring him back.”

Braden shrugged. “I know Quentin can find somewhere to hide for a few days. When you see Quentin, tell him—”

“You can tell me yourself.” Quentin emerged from behind a thick stand of trees, his habitual smile nowhere in evidence. “I’m no coward. It’s my fault. I’ll come back with you.”

“No.” Braden glared at his younger brother, working his will. “You’re not as strong as I am, and Grandfather has never liked you. But you owe me for this, Quentin. Don’t forget that you owe me.”

Quentin clenched and unclenched his fists. “I won’t forget.”

Braden glanced at Rowena. “You’d better come back. Just don’t go near Grandfather for a while. The delegates will be leaving soon, and things will be back to normal.”

Normal. As normal as they ever were at Greyburn.

“I’ll come to check on you, if I can,” Braden said to Quentin. “But stay out of trouble, for once.”

They stared at each other. Rowena wept soundlessly. After a moment Quentin took a step backward, and then another, until he had vanished behind the trees again.

Later Braden would talk to Rowena, try to comfort her if she’d let him. But she’d always been closer to Quentin, and the separation would be difficult for her. He repeated his command that she return to the house, and then Changed once more.

His run home was not so swift nor certain. He knew what would come when he admitted his failure to Tiberius. The pain he could bear, but the humiliation and his grandfathers scorn would cut far more keenly than the whip.

But he would bear it without flinching, to prove his strength. To show he could not be broken. He would be worthy to carry on the work of the Cause.

I will, Grandfather, he promised. I will make our people strong again. Nothing will stop me, ever.

Within half a mile of the house he angled away and ran to the top of Rook Knowe. From here he could look down into the valley, across the small fields and isolated cottages and beyond to row upon row of heather-clad, treeless hills marching into the distance. This was his country; he loved it as he loved Greyburn, its hardy human tenants, the bleakness of a landscape that had been never been wholly tamed.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *