Read Online Wolfsbane: 3 (Rebel Angels) by Gillian Philip - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gillian Philip
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over in my father’s arms. The one arm Seth could still move went round the wolf to rub his belly, and Branndair squirmed with delight. All the while
the blue roan shifted lazily above them both, a great protecting beast. Seth closed his eyes as Branndair whimpered happily and wriggled more comfortably against him.
I ached to go and sit beside them, to snuggle beneath my father’s free arm and feel it go round me instead of the wolf, but it was out of the question. He’d wake, and the grey eyes
would freeze, and that guarded shutter would come down across his face and his mind. I’d disappoint myself, and I’d ruin his easy happiness, and this was such a contrast to the Seth of
the daytime I found it was enough just to watch him.
Just as well I gave myself time to watch in peace. The next day when I got to the arena, fuzzy and yawning from my disturbed night, he and Eili were already hard at duelling
practice, silent and intense. His face, when he caught sight of me and raised a hand to stop her, was its normal friendly self. Friendly and stern and proud and paternal and affectionate and
entirely a mask; joy and agony were smoothed from his features and absorbed into daytime efficiency. The man, in other words, was obliterated by my father and my Captain.
He leaned on the fence and grinned at me, making a broad gesture of invitation. ‘Come and get a thrashing. You deserve one.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Let me wake up first.’
Eili snorted with amused disdain. Which was all very well for a woman who could probably kill in her sleep. ‘I’ll train him today if you like, Murlainn.’
My father shot me a knowing look. ‘How awake are you planning to be, Rory?’
My heart sank, not so much at the thought of Eili’s pitiless discipline as the prospect of two fun-free hours. The woman did not believe in either breaks or banter. ‘Couldn’t
Sionnach–’
‘Ask him yourself,’ said Eili.
She always knew where her twin was, and right now he was jumping down from the fence behind her. He nodded to me; had no need to greet Eili; and drew my father quietly aside. Their conversation
was conducted entirely in their heads, and I didn’t recognise the combination of emotions that crossed Seth’s face. You ask me, he didn’t know himself if it was grief, relief or
happiness.
‘What is it?’ I asked, unbearably curious.
Seth still didn’t know what he should be feeling, and it showed. He turned with a small helpless shrug, glanced at Eili and then at me.
‘Stella’s dead,’ he said.
I knew the name. My aunt, Uncle Conal’s sister. She and my father had never got along; and I’d never met the woman. It was Eili who tensed, suddenly the focus of attention though she
never moved or spoke. Something emanated out of her, that was all, and only her brother could have identified it, and he said nothing either.
‘Reultan,’ she said at last. ‘Her name was Reultan.’
And then Eili slung her sword into the sand, and walked away.
SETH
This is how it is, I tell him, when he’ll listen.
The world nothing but mist and monochrome, because the day hasn’t had time to give it any colour. Rain that’s barely enough to wet your skin, yet you feel it down to your bones. A
lonely wind off the sea, cold and grey as its mother sky. The smell of – what? The beginning of morning?
It’s life in your nostrils, is all: the tang of cold life, mournful and lovely because it might be your last scent of it. It’s lying there between earth and sky, knowing that when
you raise your head and spring that you’re independent of either, mortal and fragile and visible. It’s fear and it’s hate and it’s love, and you can barely tell which is
which. But the one thing you can identify is the longing to live through it, and that’s the one thing you can’t dwell on, because that way lie cowardice and betrayal, and I should know,
I should recognise those.
It’s the moment before it starts, when the wind
the blue roan shifted lazily above them both, a great protecting beast. Seth closed his eyes as Branndair whimpered happily and wriggled more comfortably against him.
I ached to go and sit beside them, to snuggle beneath my father’s free arm and feel it go round me instead of the wolf, but it was out of the question. He’d wake, and the grey eyes
would freeze, and that guarded shutter would come down across his face and his mind. I’d disappoint myself, and I’d ruin his easy happiness, and this was such a contrast to the Seth of
the daytime I found it was enough just to watch him.
Just as well I gave myself time to watch in peace. The next day when I got to the arena, fuzzy and yawning from my disturbed night, he and Eili were already hard at duelling
practice, silent and intense. His face, when he caught sight of me and raised a hand to stop her, was its normal friendly self. Friendly and stern and proud and paternal and affectionate and
entirely a mask; joy and agony were smoothed from his features and absorbed into daytime efficiency. The man, in other words, was obliterated by my father and my Captain.
He leaned on the fence and grinned at me, making a broad gesture of invitation. ‘Come and get a thrashing. You deserve one.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Let me wake up first.’
Eili snorted with amused disdain. Which was all very well for a woman who could probably kill in her sleep. ‘I’ll train him today if you like, Murlainn.’
My father shot me a knowing look. ‘How awake are you planning to be, Rory?’
My heart sank, not so much at the thought of Eili’s pitiless discipline as the prospect of two fun-free hours. The woman did not believe in either breaks or banter. ‘Couldn’t
Sionnach–’
‘Ask him yourself,’ said Eili.
She always knew where her twin was, and right now he was jumping down from the fence behind her. He nodded to me; had no need to greet Eili; and drew my father quietly aside. Their conversation
was conducted entirely in their heads, and I didn’t recognise the combination of emotions that crossed Seth’s face. You ask me, he didn’t know himself if it was grief, relief or
happiness.
‘What is it?’ I asked, unbearably curious.
Seth still didn’t know what he should be feeling, and it showed. He turned with a small helpless shrug, glanced at Eili and then at me.
‘Stella’s dead,’ he said.
I knew the name. My aunt, Uncle Conal’s sister. She and my father had never got along; and I’d never met the woman. It was Eili who tensed, suddenly the focus of attention though she
never moved or spoke. Something emanated out of her, that was all, and only her brother could have identified it, and he said nothing either.
‘Reultan,’ she said at last. ‘Her name was Reultan.’
And then Eili slung her sword into the sand, and walked away.
SETH
This is how it is, I tell him, when he’ll listen.
The world nothing but mist and monochrome, because the day hasn’t had time to give it any colour. Rain that’s barely enough to wet your skin, yet you feel it down to your bones. A
lonely wind off the sea, cold and grey as its mother sky. The smell of – what? The beginning of morning?
It’s life in your nostrils, is all: the tang of cold life, mournful and lovely because it might be your last scent of it. It’s lying there between earth and sky, knowing that when
you raise your head and spring that you’re independent of either, mortal and fragile and visible. It’s fear and it’s hate and it’s love, and you can barely tell which is
which. But the one thing you can identify is the longing to live through it, and that’s the one thing you can’t dwell on, because that way lie cowardice and betrayal, and I should know,
I should recognise those.
It’s the moment before it starts, when the wind
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