Chapter 4. Wolves in the Village

SAELYNA

My alternative route inevitably takes me through the major parts of the village. I try to remember what Halden had looked like before the Rebellion. It’s harder these days. The memories now come in snatches and bits, but enough for me to know the place has changed by a great margin.

It used to be a giant, sprawling town, the majority of its inhabitants being elves. We were of one mind, united by our magic. Unlike others in Quindar who had to be bound to certain animal spirits to channel magic, we derived ours from plants, the best of them being on Mount Ides.

I remember the songs and the dances performed before spring fires, the annual hunts and the pilgrimage to Mount Ides for our magic renewal, and evenings like this, when my parents would take us to the town hall to watch a play or two. Halden was among the last towns before the Borderlands, and among the largest in the north.

Until some genius decided that we were too strong to be ruled by some “deer-spirit-channeling twat,” as my father had quoted him. I don’t know what triggered the war that followed. No one remembers, or no one wants to.

What we do remember is the fire and the blood. The pillage, the slaughter. They carry on daily activities, like everything is fine, like it never happened, but I can see beyond those masks. We all lost things, people, memories, and that had bred rage that lies dormant. For now.

I’m almost out of the village when I bump into Daena Demar. A tall, dark girl with curly hair that curls my toe with envy, she’s an old friend. She was the first person I found in the rubble after the deer-genn soldiers ravaged the town that fateful night. The second was my mother, her black, charred body curled protectively over Cyran.

I smile at her, but she doesn’t smile back. Oh, oh.

“Where were you?!” she snaps.

“Good evening to you too, Daena,” I say smoothly.

“Cut the crap. You and Cyran left without us? I mean, you’ve done that before, but come on. It’s becoming a nasty habit.”

I rub my temple with a sigh. She’s right. It’s a third time I’ve done that. “Sorry. I had a little headache,” I tell her. It’s half-true, but it’ll do.

“Right,” she says doubtfully, then reaches for my bottle of malt wine.

“Hey…!”

But it’s fruitless; she’s already downed half of the bottle.

I’m about to pout and complain about her gulping down my painkiller, but I notice her eyes are unfocused. Like she’s seen something particularly traumatic.

“Are you ok? You don’t look…well,” I venture.

“You would have known all about it if you had actually waited up…but you’re right. We witnessed some…very unsettling sight.”

I raise my brows. “What? What happened?”

She takes another swig and shakes her head, making those beautiful curls bounce about. “Come. Not here. I’m heading over to Camille’s place. I need some dye of hers.”

I consider arguing that I need to get home on time, but I’m almost done with the book I borrowed from the library last week, and Cyran would be out hunting, so a while with Daena would not hurt. And she certainly looks somewhat traumatized.

We walk back down the path, through the streets as mothers call their children in, and men return from bars or head towards them. It hits me now that the last elves in the village are all below the age group of 25, essentially youths. It should bother me, but for some reason, I shove it aside. For now.

Camille lives with her uncle, Master Harold, an elder of the village council, and the most influential man in the village (though I think that position would be challenged now that Elwyn is around). They live in a farmhouse on the other side of the village, way across from mine. I really hope this is worth my time.

She’s feeding the chickens when we arrive.

“Hey, Cam. Did you get the dye like I asked?” Daena calls.

She looks up at us and grins lopsidedly. Something is up. “Yes, yes.” She reaches inside her apron, takes out a small pouch and tosses it at Daena.

“Daena said you all saw something in the woods. What is it?” I ask when we all sit on the bench beside the house.

Camille shakes her head. “It was horrible, Saelyn. I still can’t unsee it,” she mutters and clutches her apron.

Daena nods. “We stumbled on a number of dead patrol guards in the forest on our way back,” she says, “They were ripped apart. Like an animal got them.”

“Not just an animal,” squeaked Camille. She looks up, at the barn in the distance. Voices float from within, barely decipherable, but they’re soft enough for me to know it’s the village council. “Uncle thinks it’s a ravener, Saelyn. Raveners are in Halden,” she whimpers.

Raveners. Folden had mentioned it back at the bar. If they were in Halden…

I try to imagine why the bodies must have looked like, and immediately wish I hadn’t tried. I’ve seen a picture of a wolfen’s victim in one of the books from the library. And I have seen pictures of themselves.

Humans can channel certain animal spirits like hares, moose, and deer, which is the king’s genn. Occasionally, someone would channel something odious, like a snake or a panther. Ultimately, it makes the person unstable and difficult to fathom or control, much like their genns.

But a wolf? It’s abominable. If Quindar agrees on one thing to fear, it’s the wolves and their channelers, the wolfens. The beasts that had raided half the kingdom after they sealed a pact with the elves in their rebellion. They destroy. That’s all they do.

But what are they doing back in Halden?

I stare at Camille’s pale face, and I realize I should be scared as well. Yet I can’t afford to be. Not now.

“I’m sure the elders will have something to do with that. Surely, the patrol…” Daena scoffs.

“Patrol? Did you hear what we said? Four of them were dismembered, Saelyn. Halden is not safe. And I doubt the king would be bothered with our cause.” She tosses a stone into the duck pond, and we watch the ripples spread out in undulating waves.

“I guess we should arm ourselves now?” Camille squeaked.

I shrug. Since that night, Cyran and I have always slept with a dagger in our girdles, and I place my hand on mine. It reassures me somewhat.

“I’m sure this, like all the others, is going to pass,” I say, trying my best to be calm, “We could…”

A flash of pain stabs at my chest, deep and blinding. I gasp and fall to the ground in a crouch, blinking out tears that gather at the edge of my vision. I can hear Daena call out my name, and Camille is reaching for me, but all I can really decipher is that Cyran is in serious danger.

The pain surges again, and I know every second is precious.

“Camille, I need Tarek,” I gasp.

“What?”

“Tarek!” I hiss, “Now, Cyran is in danger!”

Her eyes widen at the sound of his name and she whistles loudly. Tarek, the large black stallion, comes bounding out of the stable towards us. Camille helps me get on its unsaddled back, and I whistle for it to run as though all hell has been let loose.

***

CYRAN

It’s a wolfen’s stab, so it’s supposed to be painful, but Gods above, this is torture. Each heave of my lungs in an attempt to draw breath rips through my body, draws blood from the wound. I can’t bear to look at it. No plant is at hand for me to harness its magic for healing. I have little knowledge of that art, anyway, and if I did, it would be suicide to so.

So I lie here, on the steps of the cottage, listening to the beat of my heart as it steadily slows down, and I call for my sister.