R. F. Long
The Wolf’s Sister
To my husband, Pat, always my hero.
Chapter One
Jeren smoothed down the heavy skirts of her mourning gown and glanced covertly at her governess. Mina wore the same shade, but it didn’t wash out her complexion and dull her eyes in the same way. Jeren sighed. Anyone would think they were of an age rather than two women with over a decade between them.
“Are you ready?” Mina asked. Jeren just nodded. “No one will object if you don’t accompany—”
Jeren firmed her jaw. “I can’t let Gilliad go through his coronation alone. He’s my brother and Father would have expected me to be here for him.”
Mina squeezed her shoulders fondly. “Your father would have been very proud of you.”
Jeren’s smile faltered. “Prouder if I’d been a boy.” She didn’t mean to sound bitter. Her father had looked on her as no more than a beautiful decoration for his court. If she had been a boy… “I could have gone with Gilliad to Sheninglas. Perhaps if I had been there—”
“Thank the Bright God you were not. Who knows what they would have done to you? The things he speaks of, the way the Fair Ones treated him…” The older woman shuddered. “Come now. We’ll be late.”
All the way to the main courtyard of the Citadel, Mina murmured various instructions and encouragements. Ambassadors from across the Holtlands and every dignitary River Holt could offer crowded into the wide square, all bedecked in their finery.
Jeren felt like a crow among hummingbirds. Tradition dictated that the court maintain mourning for a fallen Scion only until his heir was enthroned. With the day of Gilliad’s accession at hand, they threw aside their black. Jeren pursed her lips and ignored the stares, the muttered comments. Every eye fell upon her as if every mind questioned her apparel. He wasn’t Lord of River Holt yet. Though she loved her brother, she was not yet ready to cast aside the black.
“Am I not allowed to mourn my father?” she asked Mina.
“Not at the expense of your brother. Your father is two weeks dead. They wonder if you’ll stand against Gilliad.”
“I’m not even of age to inherit the Holt.”
“Not until next year, but soon you’ll be married, and Vertigern of Grey Holt is twenty-four.”
Vertigern. She’d forgotten about him. Well, no, not really. Because how could she forget the man she would be marrying. Her father had arranged it and it had been decided amongst the Scions as the finest match. Yes, she would be married. She’d met Vertigern three times since their betrothal, and he seemed the soul of honour. She couldn’t believe that he would make such a move against her home, even with her agreement. It was a political alliance, her future marriage, and as such would tie Grey Holt and River Holt as securely as the bride and groom. But stand against her own brother? Jeren said a word which made Mina start in horror.
“Where did you learn such language?” When the girl didn’t answer, Mina glared at her. “I’ll have your personal guards rotated again. You’ve obviously been listening too closely to their conversation.”
Behind them, one of Jeren’s guards cleared his throat, but Mina ignored him.
Jeren winced. Suddenly her dress seemed like the worst decision she had ever made, impolitic and naive. She glanced at her companion and Mina raised her eyebrows.
“There isn’t time to change, is there?” Jeren asked.
Mina shook her head, her lips tightly pursed. She opened the door of the apartments and led Jeren outside.
As Jeren reached the horse and carriage which would carry her and Gilliad to the outermost islands of River Holt and back to the Citadel in procession, there was no sign of her brother or of his personal guards. She tried to appear unconcerned, though she was the only one. All around her people were waiting, worrying and talking amongst themselves. Speculating.
Mina held her hands in front of her, fingers worrying at the sapphire ring she wore signifying her position as a Body Servant of the True Blood line.
“Where is he?” asked Jeren. Mina threw her a helpless look. She didn’t know either. “He’s meant to be here before me, isn’t he?”
“I—I’m sure he’ll be along in a moment, my lady,” Mina replied, her voice clear enough for all to hear. “Perhaps we are a little earlier than we thought, in your eagerness to attend your brother on his accession.” As she spoke she inclined her head graciously to a local lord and his lady who stood nearby.
Jeren recognised them. The wife had a gossip’s tongue. The husband wasn’t much better. They were listening closely.
“Perhaps.” Jeren gave a placid smile in response. “Mirrow.” Her guard stepped up to her side, his armour gleaming in the morning sun, his strong jaw fixed in a hard line. “Find out where he is,” she said in muted tones.
But Mirrow, ever efficient, didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
“At the Burgeoning Well, my lady,” Mirrow said. “He’s been there since the early hours. His men are posted at the entrance with express orders to keep everyone out.”
The guards always shared information. It was in their interest if they were to keep everyone safe. They needed to stay on top of everything and her somewhat erratic brother was his own worst enemy. Or perhaps hers.
Jeren’s teeth clipped her lower lip and the tang of blood filled her mouth. She swallowed hard. Since his return from Sheninglas, Gilliad often preferred his own company. Black moods would take him for days. Usually he’d just go hunting with his friend Maldrine, or take himself to the gaming halls, but as Lord of River Holt, he no longer had that freedom. Now, a small and bitter voice said from deep inside her mind, he knew how she felt.
“I’ll go and talk to him,” she offered, knowing they all expected it of her. All their lives, Gilliad had listened to her and precious few others.
With an ominous tension spreading across her shoulders, Jeren set off to find her brother.
Water was the life’s blood of River Holt, a city spanning seven islands. Surrounded by the Silver River, it was connected by bridges and cut by canals. The Citadel, caught like a jewel on the brink of the Alviron Falls, comprised five towers. Each corner tower was a stout defensive structure, part of the walls. In the centre, amid the maze of courtyards and fountains, Birony’s Tower rose highest of all, a hollow cylinder with a dozen balconies inside and out on each floor. The open top allowed the sunlight to fall into its heart, a circular courtyard where the statues of River Holt’s rulers gazed sightlessly at each other across the Burgeoning Well.
Cutting down through the rock of the Citadel Island, down beyond the storerooms, dungeons and crypts, the river itself fed the well, bringing its water to the Holt’s heart of hearts. Ancient magic drew the water to the surface and sealed River’s Holt’s strength to the overflowing waters here.
Two of Gilliad’s personal guards flanked the intricate wrought iron gates. Hope filled their faces as she approached and they saluted sharply. Mirrow and Teshleith joined them, waiting expectantly for her to go inside.
Jeren pressed her hand to the gate, a metal bloom of river jasmine digging into her palm. The twisted vines forming the gate held a complex and fascinating beauty. Despite his insanity, her ancestor Birony had certainly possessed an eye for fine things, for the rare, the expertly crafted and the beautiful. His wife had been beautiful, they said. But his refinement hadn’t kept the madness from him. And his son, Biran, had been even worse. He had revelled in it.