The Gathering Read online

  He gathered himself on the floor, eyes lighting with the beginnings of the change, an eerie glow that always sent shivers down Yvonne’s spine, remembering the first time she had seen it. The predator that lived in all wulfkin coming to the surface. She pushed the memories away. Again.

  She stayed on her feet, waiting, one hand going to her sword hilt. The symbol on her left shoulder glowed faintly with green light. A symbol anyone in the lands would know, even if they did not believe it.

  “You bitch. No one does that to me.” The wolf’s words were distorted by the fangs springing into his mouth with the beginnings of the change.

  “And you should know better than to lay your hands on anyone without their permission,” Yvonne told him, voice even and calm. Her heart was still racing. The older wulfkin, the ones with more sense, would be aware of her pulse. She could not do anything about that. But she could face down this young thing, all bluster and fury. He could kill her. She was quite aware of that. But she had faced down a lot of creatures who could kill her, and held her ground.

  He gathered himself to crouch on the floor, fingers lengthening as claws sprang out from his fingertips. Her hand tightened on the sword hilt. She could also kill him. One, clean, sweep of the fine edge of her sword, tempered by a master at his craft and honed with magic, would slice through skin and muscle and bone. She had done it before, stomach tight as the memory resurfaced for a moment.

  “You’ll pay for that,” the wulf growled, body tensing, ready to spring.

  Wait, she told herself, coming to her toes, ready to move. Wait.

  “Stop.”

  ~

  The one word, quiet, but carrying a world of authority, stilled everyone in the room. A wulf’s power shimmered in the air with none of the eerie glow of a change.

  “Sephenamin.” She greeted the newcomer without turning around. The young thing in front of her was still crouched, still lethal. And she had met The Tavern’s owner before, when she had scouted out the town as a possible home for her and her children.

  “Hunar.” The work carried the same level of authority as the previous one, and had a quite different response in the room. A ripple of shock carried around the space, everyone straightening a fraction.

  The symbol at her shoulder shimmered in response to her title. The symbol that everyone would recognise, even if they didn’t believe it. The stylised outline of a great bird, wings spread, head lifted in a defiant shriek. The first Hunar’s legendary companion, the Firebird, bringer of justice.

  Oath-sworn to help those in need, Hunar were trained in magic, and weapons. And outside the reach of any ruler’s influence.

  Hunar were also rare. A bare legend in some places, they were so rare, origins told like ghost stories on dark nights, gathered around fires.

  Very few people alive had met Hunar, although everyone had a story about their aunt, or grandfather, or cousin, or some more ancient ancestor who had spoken with Hunar once, who had requested their aid, and often found the result wasn’t quite what they had expected.

  She turned her head slightly, to track his progress across the floor. Tavern owner. Shrewd businessman. And, far more importantly, cerro of this range. Perhaps the most powerful wulf she had ever met in her life, and she had met a great variety of wulfkin, one way or another. He was not much older than her. Or so it seemed. Ageing in wulfkin was difficult to pin down, even for someone with her skills. What she did know about him was that he ran The Tavern, and his range, with absolute power and authority. A young wulf of his range, in The Tavern, should never have put a hand on one of the guests. She was not the one in trouble here.

  “I am sorry that you have been so disturbed,” he said. Another ripple around the room. Some surprise, perhaps from those who did not know him well. A grim acknowledgement from those who did know him, and knew the rules of this range.

  “It is of little consequence,” she answered. Another place, another time, another wulf, and she might have made more of it. But all she saw was a hotheaded young thing, too close in age to her children for her to be truly cruel.

  “An apology,” Sephenamin said, his eyes, normally a pale grey and now almost white, bright with power, travelling past Yvonne to the young wulf still crouched on the floor.

  The youngster’s pride had all gone, and he was pale, almost trembling. Not dangerous any more. She released the grip on her sword hilt and saw the youngster’s eyes track the movement, skin paling further. He had not realised she was armed, and ready to defend herself. Fool.

  “Will that suffice?” Sephenamin asked, turning his attention back to Yvonne. An apology. A slender thread of civilised behaviour against a potentially lethal attack. One of them would not have survived.

  “Perfectly well, thank you,” she answered. Civility was important to wulfkin, helping to keep their predatory natures intact. A lesson she had tried to instill into her children over and over.

  The apology was delivered in a stuttering voice, far different from the fury that he had shown a few minutes ago, and Sephenamin dispatched the wulf, sending him out of The Tavern with a flick of his fingers and promising to deal with him later. From the little she knew of him, Yvonne suspected that Sephenamin’s punishment for the young wulf would be something like mucking out the stables, on his own, for several days to come. From the sideways glance that the young wulf gave his cerro as he scuttled away, she thought the youngster was imagining any number of torments.

  “I am pleased to see that you have arrived, Hunar,” Sephenamin said, turning his attention completely towards her. “Will you introduce me?”

  It was a polite, almost deferential request. Yvonne was not fooled. Unlike many powerful men, Sephenamin saw no need to demonstrate his power at every turn. In the holding back, he demonstrated his perfect restraint and control. Traits which, like civilised behaviour, were much admired among wulfkin.

  “I should be pleased to. Joel, Mariah. This is Sephenamin, cerro of this range. Sephenamin, these are my children, Joel and Mariah.”

  The pair were on their feet, wide-eyed and, Yvonne hoped, on their best behaviour. Best behaviour would not last long, of course, but she could only hope they would try and make a good first impression.

  “I am pleased and honoured to meet you both,” Sephenamin said. As cerro, it was his role to speak first.

  Joel looked Sephenamin in the eye. There was no challenge there, just a wary assessment, one wulf to another. A few months away from leaving her guardianship, he was already showing signs of growing into significant power. She was glad she had been so candid with Sephenamin when they had met before. Very few cerro would want another budding cerro on their territory. But she trusted Joel, to the depths of her being. Despite the fight that had led to their headlong flight from their previous home, there was not a bad bone in his body, and he had no desire whatsoever to lead his own range. At least not yet. Perhaps in twenty or thirty years. Not now, not with recent events so vivid and raw in his mind.

  Mariah was making her own assessment. A little younger than Joel, she had a tendency to see the best in most people. And if she did not see the best in them, it was almost impossible to change her mind. She was not subtle. It was a trait that Yvonne admired, even if it was exasperating at times.

  “We are pleased to be here,” Joel said. Wulf protocol put him ahead of Mariah. Not by much, in terms of age, but by a significant margin in terms of their power.

  “Please sit and finish your meal.” Sephenamin waved a hand, settling himself on the stool at the end of the table as they took their places again. Willa brought him a tankard without being asked to, and moved away to the kitchens. Yvonne found her eyes following Willa’s movements. She wanted to ask Sephenamin about the injury, but now was hardly the right time.

  “Willa’s brother did not like the way she looked at another wulf,” Sephenamin volunteered, following Yvonne’s gaze. “The brother is no longer welcome here.” It was a quiet, emphatic statement. Nobody would breach that order, n
ot if they wanted to stay in this range. “Her hip was broken. She will heal completely in a few days.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Yvonne answered, conscious of the wide eyes and listening ears of her children. They had lived with a few different ranges over the years, one way or another. Yvonne could count on the fingers of one hand the number of cerro that they had met who would have cared enough to do what Sephenamin had done, to protect a vulnerable member of his range. Sephenamin’s mouth quirked up in an unexpected smile, but he said nothing.

  The children finished their stew in silence whilst Sephenamin and Yvonne exchanged little bits and pieces of information, and watched, still with wide eyes, as Sephenamin waved away Yvonne’s coins. Sephenamin’s domain. His rules. She made a polite protest, which was ignored, and accepted the free lunch, hoping that none of her relief showed on her face. The journey, at short notice, had been expensive. There had been no time to gather in provisions and make her own travel rations. Buying on the road was never cheap. And her small hoard of coins was even smaller just now. She would need to take paying work again soon, or they would end up hunting and foraging for their food.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was still dry when they left The Tavern. Sephenamin had offered them an escort the rest of the way. A casual demonstration of his local knowledge. He had not pressed the matter when Yvonne had, politely, turned down the offer.

  Even if the offer had been selfless, they had ridden far on their own and she did not think that there were any dangers between here and their final destination that two wulfkin and a sorceress would be unable to deal with. Before they left, he insisted that they should visit again soon. It was all very polite, and, judging by the expressions on Joel and Mariah’s faces when they recovered their horses, not at all what they had been expecting, no matter how much reassurance Yvonne had tried to give them on the way here.

  Yvonne thanked the stable hands, left them with generous tips, and they rode away from The Tavern in silence, weaving through the streets of the town.

  It was only when they reached the outskirts of the town and green fields lay ahead of them, with the occasional copse of trees dotted around, that the children spoke.

  “He is not what I was expecting,” Joel said.

  “He seems nice,” Mariah added. She sounded bemused. “He seemed genuinely happy that we were here.”

  Yvonne could understand the confusion. None of the previous cerros had been all that pleased to see them, or particularly welcoming, even the nice ones. And none of the previous cerros had been all that sorry to see them go, when they had needed to move on for one reason or another.

  She looked across at them. Mariah was examining everything around her with interest, eyes bright, taking in the details of the well-kept fields, well-fed livestock, and the fresh air that surrounded them. A far cry from their last home.

  Joel’s shoulders had relaxed for the first time that Yvonne could remember on this entire journey, and probably for some time before then.

  “He’s a cerro,” she said, too many words cramming up in her throat to get out in good order. Sephenamin was what she thought a proper cerro should be. Utterly ruthless in the defence of his people. Demanding the highest standards from his range. Caring of those within his range, and with more than enough power to defend those who needed it. She opened her mouth to try and express some of that, and then shook her head slightly. “I hope we’ll be able to stay here for a while,” she told them instead. “And I hope you had enough food, because there is work to do.”

  Familiar grins crossed their faces. They rolled their eyes, but it was a genuine tease. There was always work to do.

  A little while later they rode around a bend of the small river they had been following and, ahead of them, an old stone bridge spanned the river. Not high enough for any decent sized boat to get under, it led across the river to a property that sat on its own. A good sized house, with outbuildings and a few fields. All enclosed with a low fence that looked like it that had not been tended in years, wooden slats broken and missing in places. The fields were big enough to hold the horses, and some other livestock if they chose. The two-storey house was made of the pale grey stone native to the area and, to Yvonne’s relief, looked whole. No obvious sagging in the roof, and no broken windows.

  “Is this it?” Mariah asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe the tiny rent they’re charging,” Joel added. “It’s huge. And fields as well.”

  “I told you. It’s haunted.”

  They had discussed this a lot on the journey here. It had been the only property for rent in Fir Tree Crossing, and nobody local wanted it.

  “Well, they had better move out,” Mariah said, baring her teeth for a moment.”I don’t want to share my house with a haunting.”

  As they moved closer to the house, Yvonne could see signs of neglect. The windows might be intact, but the window frames were desperately in need of some paint, as was the front door, slightly warped with the weather, black paint almost turned to grey. The door of the nearest outbuilding was hanging half open, one of the hinges gone, paint almost all peeled away. There were stables beyond that, though, which looked weatherproof, doors open and flapping slightly in the breeze. Grass and weed were growing in cracks in the ground, vivid green next to the grey stone of the buildings and dark earth.

  The breeze, cool against her face, brought with it the faint scent of herbs. There might be a kitchen garden, doubtless run wild with neglect.

  The horses’ heads lifted as they drew closer and Yvonne’s horse, Lothar, an old warhorse that had carried her safely from more years than she cared to remember, gave a low, huffing sound. He recognised a stable when he saw one. Yvonne took that as a good sign. The horses, and Lothar in particular, had a knack for spotting when things were wrong.

  Joel and Mariah might dismiss the idea of a haunting, but she had seen too many things and experienced too much to wave it away. It might be nothing more than an odd wind through the house overnight, or there might be something more sinister afoot. The children were confident that between them they could deal with it. She hoped they were right.

  “Chores,” she said, breaking into their chatter as they looked around. There were no rolled eyes, and no groans. For once.

  Leaving Mariah to settle the horses, and draw water for them from the well, she and Joel went into the house, armed with the cleaning supplies that she had insisted they carry on their spare horse. The children had not believed her when she had decided that they needed to carry brooms and buckets with them. One look inside, and Joel nodded his head, once, seeing what she had meant.

  The interior was dusty but intact. Better than she had expected. By some miracle, the pump tap in the kitchen produced clear water after a few tries. The floors all seemed intact, although a few floorboards creaked. The entire place was thick with a layer of dust, and there were impressive cobwebs in some of the rooms.

  “Kitchen first, then bedrooms,” she told Joel. He looked around, half-opening his mouth with the obvious question, and then closed it again, nodding. And they set to work.

  Sorceresses were supposed to be able to conjure miracles, she thought, as she brushed another cobweb aside. They should certainly be capable of cleaning a neglected house. But what the legends failed to mention was that magic required energy, and one of the prices paid for being a Hunar was that using magic for selfish reasons required a far higher price. Some years before, she had used magic for something similar and had not been able to get out of bed for days.

  Brooms and buckets and soap and cloths were not glamorous, and required physical effort. But it was far less effort than magic, in this case.

  Mariah joined them when they had moved upstairs, cleaning the stairs as they went, and were half-way round the first bedroom.

  When the first room was done, she left them arguing over who would have which bedroom. It did not really matter to her, and they would clean three for them all to use. S
he was more interested in one of the outbuildings at the back, which was the real reason she had been prepared to overlook the haunting.

  On her way to the outbuilding, she set a cook pot on the kitchen fire, using the last of their vegetables for a basic soup, finding an odd comfort and delight in having a hearth to cook with and knowing it was hers, for as long as she wanted.

  When the sun was fading, she went to check on the horses. They were quiet, dozing happily. Mariah had left them with enough feed and water for the night, but they flicked their ears towards her, accepting a pat from her before she left them.

  Joel and Mariah were in the kitchen, eyes on the cook pot.

  They were all covered in dust and bits of cobwebs, but they had clean bedrooms and a clean kitchen. A good place to start. The rest of the house could wait.

  “Come with me. There is something else that you might like.”

  Intrigued, the children followed her round the side of the house to one of the outbuildings at the back. She had started a fire there and the air was warm when she opened the door.

  “A bathhouse?” Joel was astonished. As well he might be. An innocuous farmhouse, not that far from a trading town, was an unlikely place to have its own bathhouse. Particularly one which provided heated water, from the furnace in the corner.

  “Now I know why we got this house,” Mariah said, smiling.

  “Who wants to go first?” Yvonne asked.

  The children argued. Eventually Mariah won, as Yvonne thought she might.

  “Let’s go and set the ward stones whilst Mariah has a bath,” Yvonne suggested.

  The ward stones, set at intervals of no more than six paces all the way around the house’s immediate surroundings, were dormant, the spells in them old and degraded. Even a Hunar needed protection, and her magic rose to her command. Still, it took a considerable amount of energy and effort to restore each spell so that the ward stones gleamed faintly in the fading light, and she was truly worn out by the time they came back to the house.