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Authors: Alice Borchardt
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into her room.
The imprisoning bolts rattled shut as soon as the door closed behind her. She had one bolt on her side, and she drove it home. She stripped off her dress and shift. Then the wolf smelled food!
She burrowed under the blankets with her hands and found the pot. The old woman must have put it there. Protected by earthenware and the blankets, it was still just warm. The room was freezing. The shutters over the barred window did nothing to stop the wind.
Unimpeded and welcome, the wolf visited. She was starving. It took her less time to finish the stew than it would the woman. Her fur sealed out the cold. The rough tongue made one last circuit of the bowl.
Then, the woman jumped up naked and climbed quietly into the bed. Regeane crouched down under the covers and blessed the old woman: she’d double blanketed the bed and put on clean linen sheets. They were patched, worn, and threadbare, but smooth and comfortable to the touch.
When the wolf left, she took most of Regeane’s injuries with her. Her body no longer ached, though she remained exhausted almost to the point of unconsciousness. Still, her mind would not stop working.
Gundabald! The devil! They were one and the same. She knew she’d only begun to taste the misery he planned to deal her.
How could they have persuaded her mother to connive at the death of one who had loved and protected her? What kind of exchange had Wolfstan been for Firminius, her mother’s second husband? She remembered him as notable only for corpulence, indolence, and monumental greed.
No, she had nothing to hope for from Gundabald and everything to fear. Somehow she must escape, but she had no idea how. The little money he had given her would not carry her far.
The she-wolf, bold creature that she was, was simply angered by the usurpation of her freedom. She was physically mature, but her sexual maturity didn’t match the woman’s. She was yet the lean hunter—meat provider of the pack—able to outrace even the fleetest deer. Vestal virgin of the moonglow—unchosen, untouched. She might rise to defend the woman on the marriage bed.
Ye gods!
the woman thought.
A true disaster
. She must escape. How? Where?
Something plucked at the edges of her memory the way an importunate beggar plucks at one’s sleeves. Wolfstan! His people believed his line had failed. Gundabald let that slip. But it hadn’t failed. She was here, carrying the same powers he had. They called him the Talisman. Who told her his story? She couldn’t remember and was too tired to try.
Her decision was made. It left her at peace. Could she find her father’s people? She would face pursuit and treachery by Gundabald and Hugo. So be it. The female hunter of the dark stared at her from the edge of sleep with glowing eyes, beckoning her into beyond.
She would succeed or die trying. She and herself were in accord. Regeane followed the wolf drifting into darkness where, in the shadowland of sleep, she and her companion could run free … through the endless forests of her dreams.
SHE WOKE EARLY. ONLY A FAINT BLUE LIGHT SHONE in around the shutters. She ruffled through the basket under her bed, searching for a few clean things to wear. Again, the old woman had not failed her. She had freshly washed a clean gray linen gown and a worn, but redyed, brown mantle. Underwear and a very threadbare veil of her mother’s—it had large, translucent patches—completed the ensemble.
She was afraid the door might be locked, but the old woman was there, involved in her endless cleaning, and she had undone the bolts.
Regeane collected Hugo—he protested weakly, but mindful of Gundabald’s orders, he came. She passed the old woman sweeping the hall with a twig broom.
Hugo was already out and going down the steps. Regeane paused next to her and pressed one of the silver coins into her hand.
The old woman could tell by the touch it was more than a copper. Her eyes widened as she secreted it. “Good
The imprisoning bolts rattled shut as soon as the door closed behind her. She had one bolt on her side, and she drove it home. She stripped off her dress and shift. Then the wolf smelled food!
She burrowed under the blankets with her hands and found the pot. The old woman must have put it there. Protected by earthenware and the blankets, it was still just warm. The room was freezing. The shutters over the barred window did nothing to stop the wind.
Unimpeded and welcome, the wolf visited. She was starving. It took her less time to finish the stew than it would the woman. Her fur sealed out the cold. The rough tongue made one last circuit of the bowl.
Then, the woman jumped up naked and climbed quietly into the bed. Regeane crouched down under the covers and blessed the old woman: she’d double blanketed the bed and put on clean linen sheets. They were patched, worn, and threadbare, but smooth and comfortable to the touch.
When the wolf left, she took most of Regeane’s injuries with her. Her body no longer ached, though she remained exhausted almost to the point of unconsciousness. Still, her mind would not stop working.
Gundabald! The devil! They were one and the same. She knew she’d only begun to taste the misery he planned to deal her.
How could they have persuaded her mother to connive at the death of one who had loved and protected her? What kind of exchange had Wolfstan been for Firminius, her mother’s second husband? She remembered him as notable only for corpulence, indolence, and monumental greed.
No, she had nothing to hope for from Gundabald and everything to fear. Somehow she must escape, but she had no idea how. The little money he had given her would not carry her far.
The she-wolf, bold creature that she was, was simply angered by the usurpation of her freedom. She was physically mature, but her sexual maturity didn’t match the woman’s. She was yet the lean hunter—meat provider of the pack—able to outrace even the fleetest deer. Vestal virgin of the moonglow—unchosen, untouched. She might rise to defend the woman on the marriage bed.
Ye gods!
the woman thought.
A true disaster
. She must escape. How? Where?
Something plucked at the edges of her memory the way an importunate beggar plucks at one’s sleeves. Wolfstan! His people believed his line had failed. Gundabald let that slip. But it hadn’t failed. She was here, carrying the same powers he had. They called him the Talisman. Who told her his story? She couldn’t remember and was too tired to try.
Her decision was made. It left her at peace. Could she find her father’s people? She would face pursuit and treachery by Gundabald and Hugo. So be it. The female hunter of the dark stared at her from the edge of sleep with glowing eyes, beckoning her into beyond.
She would succeed or die trying. She and herself were in accord. Regeane followed the wolf drifting into darkness where, in the shadowland of sleep, she and her companion could run free … through the endless forests of her dreams.
SHE WOKE EARLY. ONLY A FAINT BLUE LIGHT SHONE in around the shutters. She ruffled through the basket under her bed, searching for a few clean things to wear. Again, the old woman had not failed her. She had freshly washed a clean gray linen gown and a worn, but redyed, brown mantle. Underwear and a very threadbare veil of her mother’s—it had large, translucent patches—completed the ensemble.
She was afraid the door might be locked, but the old woman was there, involved in her endless cleaning, and she had undone the bolts.
Regeane collected Hugo—he protested weakly, but mindful of Gundabald’s orders, he came. She passed the old woman sweeping the hall with a twig broom.
Hugo was already out and going down the steps. Regeane paused next to her and pressed one of the silver coins into her hand.
The old woman could tell by the touch it was more than a copper. Her eyes widened as she secreted it. “Good
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