And in a moment Shan would return to the camp, unaware of the confrontation taking place. He would walk right between them.
The black wolf leaped. He barrelled into Anala and they both went down in a flurry of snarls and yelps. Jeren dived aside, landing heavily right beside her fire. She grabbed the largest branch from its edge and yanked it out. The white-hot tip spat a fountain of sparks. She reached the wolves just as the black wolf tore a gash in the skin of Anala’s neck and forced her down, his jaws ready to do the same to her throat.
Wielding the burning branch two-handed, Jeren brought it down on the black wolf’s spine as hard as she could. The animal gave an almost human cry of agony and recoiled from her, releasing Anala in its hurry to retreat. Jeren lunged at it, as if she held Shan’s sword.
The wolf fled, leaping through the night. Jeren watched it go, her chest heaving, her fingernails digging into the branch. She held the remains of her weapon up before her and it cast a dreadful light on Anala’s wounded form lying in the snow. Blood oozed through her fur and she lifted her head, trying to lick it.
Jeren dropped to her knees, throwing the smouldering branch to one side. In the half light, she examined the wound. This couldn’t be happening! Not like this!
“Anala!” Shan sprinted into the camp. His voice twisted with fear.
Jeren pressed her hands into Anala’s fur again and the warm sticky blood coated her fingers. The wolf whined as she probed the jagged wound, but didn’t snap at her or warn her off.
Shan crashed to his knees beside her. “What happened? What did this?”
“Another wolf. Get out of my way, Shan. I have to help her. She came back to defend me.”
“She’s a wolf. Can you heal her?”
It was a good question, and one for which she had no answer. But she had to try.
“I can heal anything,” she growled, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded. But she had to. It was not a matter of Shan, or the devastation he would feel if anything happened to Anala. It was not even a matter of this new debt to the wolf.
Anala needed her. And they were pack.
Jeren closed her eyes and released her powers into the wolf.
Pain struck her neck and shoulder, nearly toppling her, but she forced her body to absorb it, to drain the agony away from the animal. Tears sprang from her eyes, carved icy gouges down her cheeks, and she drew in a single breath, like a lump of ice scraping down her throat. She imagined her magic stretching over the wound, drawing the rent flesh back together.
A hand closed on her shoulder, radiating strength and support, filling her. She pressed harder on Anala’s side, and the wolf whimpered again, struggling beneath her.
“Shh.” Shan’s voice flowed over her. “All will be well.”
Whether he was talking to her or Anala, she didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
The wolf stilled and Jeren released the thread of magic, her work done. As she opened her eyes the world slipped sideways, but strong arms caught her, cradled and enfolded her. Her cheek came to rest against his chest. He enveloped her in the warmth of his body. She shivered, not from the cold. In Shan’s arms, the cold could not touch her. She threaded her fingers between his, and he closed his hand around hers, lifting her arm as he did so. His lips brushed the back of her hand, his kiss filling her with sparks of desire. Beneath her breast, her heart thundered, and with her head still pressed to his chest, she could hear his heart pounding in response.
“You should rest,” he said, his voice strained with self-control. Even as he said it, his hand ran down the curve of her back so gently, bringing her even closer to him. “You gave too much of yourself. I will prepare some food.” She looked up. He held his face carefully impassive, giving nothing away, not even a hint that he had kissed her.
Shan carried her like a child and settled her inside the tent, wrapping her in the blanket. When he leaned over her, he took a moment to study her exhausted face.
“What is it?” she asked.
He ran his long fingers down her cheek, their silky touch belying the strength she knew they held. “Thank you,” he told her solemnly. “With all my heart, thank you.”
Jeren tried to smile, but she couldn’t seem to dredge up the strength. Shan left her and a second later a warm, furry body snuggled in against her. Anala licked her face, making little yelps of gratitude as she nuzzled her and settled at her side. Jeren wrapped her arms around the wolf’s body, burying her fingers in her fur for reassurance, and slept.
They moved southwest with the inevitability of the seasons, descending from the snow plains through the foothills and into a world that didn’t know snow. Flowers littered the undulating meadows and the seed-heavy grass swayed in the breeze.
The first sign Jeren had that their journey together was almost over came as a column of smoke, a thin dark finger pointing to the sky. She stopped, her eyes riveted to it. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought he should be able to hear it.
His deep voice rippled over her senses. “We’ve crossed the border?”
“Not yet. That’s Brightling’s Dale. We’re still in River Holt lands, but the Grey Holt border is only a day or so west. I could get help there, perhaps, a horse…”
“You could.”
He didn’t move and neither did she. It was over. She forced in a breath.
“Shan, I—”
“Hush, little one. Just stay safe.”
Anala whined, circling them, her tail held low.
“And you. Be careful.”
“Always.” He sent her a strained grin. “Go on now.”
How she found the strength to walk forwards, she didn’t know. She kept her eyes fixed on the town and let her tears flow unimpeded. She couldn’t turn back. She couldn’t let him see her cry.
When Jeren judged she was far enough away, she looked for Shan, but he had gone. That hurt more than anything. She saw no sign of him, not even a trail in the grass.
Chapter Seven
The walls of Brightling’s Dale loomed over Jeren’s wary approach. A River Holt flag billowed on the top of the gatehouse. The gold edging told her nobles were visiting the town. That thought made her uneasy.
Bumped and jostled, she joined the flow of traffic towards the main gate. As she stepped up to the guards, however, they blocked her way.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
Stunned, she realised that the guard opposed her entry.
“Don’t stand there gaping like a fish,” he snarled. “Answer.”
“I…I need to see the garrison commander.”
His companion laughed. “She’ll want to see the bloody Scion next. Be on your way. There’s no wilders allowed in Brightling’s Dale.”
Jeren stumbled back from them, glancing belatedly at her dirty clothing. They thought her a wilder? Gods, she could imagine her mother’s reaction to that!
“You don’t understand, I’m Jeren of River Holt.”
“And I’m the King of Forest Halls,” he sneered. “Move along, girl.”
Someone pushed past her, eager to be inside and fed up with the delay. The next man just shoved her aside, off the pathway entirely.
“It’s not like she belongs here,” a woman muttered to her husband as their cart trundled past. Carefully, Jeren backed away, aware of the crowd’s change of mood. She had heard stories about wilders, those who lived with the Fair Ones, and the way they were regarded by the border dwellers.