The Gray Wolf Throne Read online

You’ve lived your life with a broken heart, Raisa thought, staring at Byrne. So why did you have to break my heart, too?

  And before she knew what she was doing, she was speaking aloud. “Why did you do it?” she said softly. “Why did you take Amon away from me?”

  “Your Highness,” he said. His expression, his posture, the way he flexed his hands—it all told her to back off. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I am not going to keep quiet about this just to make it easier on everyone,” Raisa said. “You are stuck here with me, so you may as well talk about it.”

  Byrne came forward on his knees and lifted the pot off the flame. “I’d better go out and water the horses,” he said.

  “I’ll still be here when you get back,” she said. “We can talk now or after.”

  He sighed noisily and set the pot on the fire. Then sat back on his heels. “You are talking about my choosing of Corporal Byrne as your captain, I suppose?” he said.

  “I am perfectly satisfied with Amon as my captain,” Raisa said. “I am talking about the linking, or—or the binding, or whatever you call it.” She shuddered, recalling how a simple kiss between them had caused Amon excruciating pain. When Byrne said nothing, she added, “Why was that necessary? And why has it been such a big secret?”

  This is why it’s a secret, Byrne’s expression said. This conversation.

  “All of the captains are bound to their queens,” Byrne said finally. “It’s been that way since the Breaking.”

  “Did you really think it was necessary to bind Amon to me?” Raisa lifted her hands, palms up. “We’ve been friends since childhood.”

  “I did it for the line,” Byrne said, looking into her eyes unapologetically. “I did not do it to keep you away from my son. Or my son away from you.”

  “Are you sure?” Raisa felt her mean streak surfacing. She wanted to hurt Byrne to make up for what had been stolen from her. “Are you sure that you weren’t jealous because I loved Amon, while…while…”

  Byrne continued to look at her, waiting, and she trailed off. No. She couldn’t go there. She wouldn’t go there.

  “The linkage protects the line,” Byrne said, when it was clear she wouldn’t go on. “Amon is the best choice to serve as your captain. If it served the line for you to…be together, the linkage would not interfere.”

  “Really,” Raisa said. “Where is that written? Where’s the rule book on all this? I just blunder along, thinking I’m free to make choices, and then I find out they’ve been made for me.”

  Byrne inclined his head, acknowledging this, then looked up at her again.

  “Where does it tell me what I’m supposed to do now?” she whispered, blinking back tears.

  Byrne produced a handkerchief from somewhere and handed it to her. “You serve,” he said. “You find happiness where you can. In love or not, you find a way to continue the line.”

  Just as he had done.

  And just like that, Raisa’s resentment faded, leaving a dull ache, like the muscle memory of an old injury. She realized that her bitterness had become a habit, that somewhere along the line, she’d accepted that she and Amon would never be together as lovers. That she needed friends as much, or even more, right now.

  And then what had she done? She’d fallen for Han Alister—someone else she couldn’t have, in a marriage, anyway.

  “None of us are free to follow our hearts,” she said. “Not really. Is that what you’re saying?”

  He shook his head. “No one can stop you from loving someone,” he said.

  Raisa dabbed at her eyes. “I thought that, for me, it would be different, that I would find a way to make it happen. That I would marry for love.” She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “Now I know,” she said, “like every other Gray Wolf queen, I will settle for a political marriage to someone I don’t love.”

  Byrne half smiled. “Somehow I don’t think you will settle, Your Highness.”

  I can always emulate Marianna, Raisa thought. And find love outside of marriage. She’d never forgiven her mother for not loving her father more. Now, belatedly, Raisa was beginning to realize that choices are not always as black-and-white as they seem.

  Impulsively, Raisa leaned forward and gripped Byrne’s calloused hands. “How is she doing, Captain? The queen, I mean?”

  He looked down at their joined hands, and up into her face. “My Lady, I don’t think—”

  “You are linked to her. You must know something of her state of mind.”

  Byrne grimaced as though she’d strayed onto a forbidden subject, a topic too intimate for discussion. Like love.

  “Your Highness, it’s not my place to guess what—”

  “If I’m going to help her once I return to the capital, I need to know,” Raisa said bluntly.

  Byrne looked at Raisa, almost defensively. “It’s not as if I can read her mind.”

  Raisa nodded. “I know.” She paused. “I just wish I understood her better. She never shared a lot with me, growing up, about herself. We are so different. I don’t even look much like her.”

  He shook his head. “No, you favor your father more. Though she is tall, she has always seemed delicate to me, like…like maiden’s kiss.” Maiden’s kiss was a spring flower that bloomed for a day and shriveled at a touch.

  “Her Majesty has been melancholy lately,” Byrne went on. “And no wonder. There is constant pressure from the Spirit clans, from the High Wizard and the Wizard Council. That, along with your absence…” His voice trailed off. “I did not want to leave her at this time.”

  “It’s my fault you had to leave her, Captain,” Raisa said, again feeling the crush of guilt.

  “If I were assigning blame, Your Highness, I would not begin with you.” Byrne plunked his saddlebags down in front of Raisa. “What food I have is in there. We’d better eat, then get some sleep so we can move when the storm is over.”

  He stood, lifting the pot of water, and ducked out through the branches to water the horses.

  By the time he returned, Raisa had rummaged through his saddlebags, pulled out a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese, and set them out on cloths. Byrne divided the cheese with his belt dagger and handed half to her, then carved off thick slices of bread. When the food was gone, he slapped the blade thoughtfully across his palm.

  “Do you carry a dagger, Your Highness?”

  Raisa nodded. “I do, as a rule, but Micah and Fiona took mine.”

  “Then take this one.” He wiped the blade on his breeches, returned the blade to a sheath at his waist, then unbuckled the belt, handing the whole package to her. Raisa slid the blade free, turning it so it caught the light. It was of the same make and design as the Lady sword, with the image of Hanalea worked into the hilt.

  “I can’t take this!” she protested. “It belongs in your family.”

  “I’ve not much use for it, in fact,” Byrne replied. “If I let an enemy get close enough to need it, I deserve what I get.” He raised his hand to forestall further protest. “At least carry it until we reach Fellsmarch.” He yawned. “We’re not going anywhere until this storm goes south, so we may as well get some sleep.” He unrolled his blankets in front of the makeshift entrance and slid under them.

  Raisa crawled into her own bedroll, which was laid close to the fire. She set the knife in its sheath by her left hand. Their frail shelter trembled under the assault of the witch wind, and snow sifted down through the branches. “I’ll pray to the Maker that the storm moves on,” Raisa said sleepily.

  “Be careful what you pray for, Your Highness,” Byrne said, his face turned away from her so she couldn’t see his expression. “We could use a little wind to move the snow around. We’ll be easier to track when the weather clears.”

  C H A P T E R F I V E

  OLD ENEMIES

  The wind began to dwindle sometime before dawn. Raisa awoke to the sudden quiet and the realization that Edon Byrne was missing. She sat up, shivering, scrubbing the
sleep from her eyes with the heels of her hands. Byrne’s blankets were rolled and tied, and a pot of tea steamed over the rekindled fire. A breakfast of more bread and cheese was laid out just outside the fire ring. The message was obvious: Byrne meant to make an early start.

  Raisa stood and stretched, gingerly massaging her hip bones and backside. She had too little padding to enjoy sleeping on the ground. Unwinding the linen from around her neck, she scraped the poultice free, hoping Byrne wouldn’t insist on replacing it. She ate quickly, washing the dry breakfast down with tea, then began layering on clothing. Her socks and gloves were dry, but stiff and uncomfortable.

  When she stepped outside, carrying their remaining gear, she was confronted with one of those transformations that are common in the mountains. Stars glittered over the peaks to the west. Where the thick pines blocked the wind, the ground was covered with a thick layer of new snow, pristine and virginal, in some places drifted higher than Raisa’s head. More exposed areas were scoured clean, with the wind still teasing the snow free and spinning it off into the darkness. Although it was still dark and very cold, the coming day promised to be a fair one.

  “Good morning, Your Highness.” Raisa spun around. It was Byrne, leading their horses, both already saddled. Switcher was fighting the bit, ears laid back, protesting the early start. “We can hope our assailants are sleeping in, but I think it wise to travel as far as we can under cover of darkness.”

  Raisa nodded. She stroked the mare’s neck, making soothing noises, examining the gash in the beast’s shoulder. Byrne was right: it looked superficial. Strapping her bedroll and saddlebags behind her saddle, she swung up onto Switcher’s back, every muscle screaming a protest.

  It was slow going. This climb to the pass would have been difficult in good weather with fresh mounts. The footing was treacherous, with hazards and obstacles concealed by the drifts. At times they waded through snow that reached the horses’ chests. Where space permitted, they left the trail and walked under the trees to either side. The snow wasn’t as deep in the forest, and they would be less visible to anyone who might be watching from a distance. But once the sun spilled over the eastern escarpment, Raisa felt terribly exposed: a dark insect climbing a white wall of snow.

  At least they had a clear view of their back trail. Raisa couldn’t help looking over her shoulder, expecting at any moment to see a crowd of riders coming fast. But she and Byrne climbed all morning with no sign of pursuit, and Raisa relaxed fractionally. If they could reach Marisa Pines Camp, the clans could provide an escort the rest of the way.

  They took their midday meal in the saddle, dismounting only to walk beside the horses where it was steepest, to rest them a bit. The sun shone down from a brilliant blue sky, kindling the ice that coated rock and pine branches. When they were still several miles below the notch, Byrne turned aside into a copse of trees. Raisa followed automatically, reining in when he did.

  “Here’s where it gets dangerous,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Raisa looked about, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the gloom under the pines. Here and there, glittering shafts of sunlight penetrated all the way to the ground. Switcher dropped her head and nibbled hopefully at the pine branches within reach.

  “There are many ways to get to the pass, but only one way through. And no cover for the last couple of miles, since we’ll be above the tree line.”

  Branches stirred above their heads, and snow sifted down. Raisa raked it out of her collar. “They can’t possibly have caught up with us, could they?” Would anyone who was not fleeing for his life have braved the storm so long, or pressed on before daybreak?

  “Anything’s possible.”

  Raisa waited, and when Byrne did not speak, she said, impatiently, “Well, if they’re coming, it doesn’t do us any good to wait for them here, does it?”

  He grinned. “A fair hit, Your Highness. And well deserved.” He paused, as if debating whether to go on. He stroked the gelding’s neck, murmuring soft endearments, then said to Raisa, “You’re different from Queen Marianna, if I may say so.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Raisa replied dryly. “Usually in the midst of a scolding.”

  “Meaning no disrespect to your mother, I think it’s a good thing.”

  Raisa flinched in surprise. This was most unexpected, coming from a man who was clearly devoted to Marianna. “What do you mean?”

  Byrne cleared his throat. “I told you she was frail and beautiful, like maiden’s kiss. You’re more like juniper. You seem to thrive in the worst weather, and I’d guess you’d be impossible to uproot once you’ve set yourself.”

  “You’re saying I’m tough, prickly, and stubborn.” She’d heard that often enough, most recently from her teachers at Oden’s Ford.

  “Aye, but because you’re small, they’ll underestimate you. And that’s not a bad thing, in these dangerous times. Keep ’em guessing, is my advice, and you’ll survive in the capital.”

  Raisa smiled, knowing she was being paid a compliment. “Thank you, Captain. But first, I have to survive the afternoon.”

  “Look you, if there’s trouble, you lay down on that horse and ride for the notch and don’t look back. I’ll follow after as soon as I can.”

  Right. Just like the rest of the triple.

  In response, Raisa set her heels hard in Switcher’s sides. The startled mare tossed her head and stumbled forward, out of the grove of trees and back onto the trail.

  The brief winter’s day was failing when they passed the tree line. Long blue shadows extended before them as the sun declined behind the West Wall. Out of cover of the trees, the wind daggered right through Raisa. She leaned forward, as if by doing so she could urge the mare along faster. Byrne took the lead most of the time, breaking trail. On this last long push to the top, they simply made all the speed they could.

  As they neared the notch, the snow cover dwindled, scoured away by the relentless wind. The sun plunged behind the West Wall. The stone escarpment flamed momentarily, then night fell with the suddenness of the high country.

  Finally, there was no more trail above them, only a long steep slope behind them. On either side, great granite slabs framed Marisa Pines Pass. At its narrowest, it was no wider than a horse trail. It was said that, years ago, a small band of Demonai warriors had held a thousand southern soldiers in the pass.

  “Wait here,” Byrne ordered. Raisa did as she was told, while Byrne rode on at a quick walk to scout the pass ahead. Raisa shivered, even though the great stones blocked the rising wind. Moments later, Byrne returned, appearing nearly silently out of the gloom. “Come on.”

  They rode ahead slowly, single file, through the narrow waist of the pass. Raisa squinted up at the sheer walls on either side, the slice of sky between. Beyond, the way broadened into what would be a lovely alpine meadow in summertime, now hidden under a shroud of snow. The moon was already rising. As it cleared the mountains to the east, the meadow was flooded with a silver brilliance, as cold and pure and unforgiving as any breath of mountain air. She felt the prickle of magic all around her.

  They were home.

  Somewhere behind her, a wolf howled, its voice raking up gooseflesh on the back of her neck. Ahead and to the right, its packmate answered, its voice a cold, heartless note in the dark.

  Raisa’s heart began to hammer.

  Byrne was just ahead and to the right, horse and rider a dark silhouette against the shield of the moon. He half turned to face her, as if to inquire what the matter was.

  And then she heard it, like a bad memory from the night before, the sound of crossbows, the thwack of bolts hitting home. Byrne’s body shuddered with the impact of multiple blows. The gelding reared nervously, shaking his head, then screamed as he, too, was struck. Byrne clung for an instant like a thistle to his back, then toppled sideways from the saddle.

  “BYRNE!” Raisa’s scream reverberated in the small canyon. Heedless of the volleys of arrows that hissed past her and clattered against r
ock, she spurred Switcher forward to where her captain lay on his back in the snow. Sliding from the saddle, she knelt next to him, lifting his head. His body bristled with shafts, and one transfixed his throat. He tried to speak, but produced only a gush of blood. Lifting one arm, he weakly waved her off. Only the confusion and the wildly plunging horses had saved her thus far.

  Someone grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright. A gauntleted arm circled her waist and dragged her off her feet, shoving her belly-down across the saddle in front of him. Her captor kept her pinned in place with one arm while he spurred his mount to a gallop.

  With the horror of Byrne’s murder and the helpless jouncing against the horse’s back and the kaleidoscopic view of the ground, Raisa nearly lost the contents of her stomach. No! she said furiously to herself. I’ll find a way to make the bastards pay if it’s the last thing I do! She concentrated on that thought, and made what plans she could.

  The scent of pine and a reduction in the force of the wind told her they’d reentered the forest. Which side of the pass? she wondered. Her captor slowed his horse to a walk, apparently looking for some landmark. Finally he grunted in satisfaction and turned to the left. Another hundred yards, and he yanked on the reins, bringing the horse to a halt. He slid out of the saddle, then dragged Raisa down also, setting her on her feet, but keeping one beefy hand on her shoulder. She swung around to look at him.

  She took in the stringy brown hair, the cruel slash of a mouth, the tobacco-spit eyes. He was the same soldier who had gashed Switcher’s shoulder, but this time she recognized him.

  Blood of the demon! Raisa thought. Can things get any worse?

  One side of his face was puckered and scarred, evidence of a serious burn.

  Raisa had been responsible for that.

  He was clad in what looked like army-issue winter garb, but there was no signia on it anywhere. A discolored stubble covered the lower half of his face, lorded over by a broken nose.

  Raisa knew where and how it had been broken.

  Mac Gillen, she thought, and all the hope drained out of her.