At least, she didn’t think she was. She didn’tfeelpregnant, but her mother had hardly given her much information regarding such things. Sex and pregnancy were taboo subjects in the Mirien, for all the kingdom purported to support science.
It supports science when it comes to men, she thought bitterly. When she was queen, she would ensure every girl and woman understood the process clearly, as well as every one of their husbands to support them.
But the truth was, her monthly courses weren’t due for a few more days, so until her bleeding came, she supposed there was a chance she might already be carrying Rangar’s baby after all . . .
She spurred Fable on, holding her head high. “I’ll be a mother to your children one day, Rangar Barendur, but not yet.”
Rangar brooded at this, and Valenden delighted in his brother’s sour mood as they rode on.
The mountain pass between the Baersladen and Vil-Kevi was higher than Bryn had ever been. She marveled at the rocky peaks that seemed to stretch endlessly. They were fortunate to have a clear day, for she wouldn’t have wanted to make the journey during rain or snow. They spotted snow-white rabbits munching bark that were so unused to people they didn’t even scamper away. Unfortunately, that meant one of them ended up on the end of Rangar’s arrow and roasted over a campfire for lunch.
They crossed the Vil-Kevi border, marked with a pile of stones, and descended into the forest valley in the afternoon. When they’d come to the forest kingdoms before for the rendezvous with Mars, Bryn had been frightened by the towering trees that seemed strangely aware. Now, she marveled at them as wonders of nature. Some were so big around at their base that she doubted five men could hold hands around them. They creaked and clicked as the riders passed.
“Magic is strong in the forest kingdoms,” Valenden said as Bryn looked around at the clicking sounds. “The forest folk are even more tied to nature than we are. They worship the trees and believe their magic flows from them.”
“I might believe it, too, if I lived here,” she murmured, gazing up at the towering trunks.
The path eventually flattened as they wound through the forest and came upon a cluster of houses that made a small village. They dismounted to let the horses forage and drink water. One of the forest folk emerged from the closest house, lowering her head out of respect when she saw their fine clothes and Rangar’s crown.
“My lords. My lady,” she greeted them. “Prince Anter informed us that you might be soon passing this way. We’ve prepared nourishment for you.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Bryn said as the woman returned from her home with a basket of fresh acorn flour cakes and apples. After they visited momentarily, Bryn asked tactfully, “These wolf attacks we’ve been hearing about—have there been any here?”
The woman’s face paled. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Not here, thank the gods. But about an hour’s ride south in the Sagshaw Valley, yes. The beasts attacked a trapper’s home in the middle of the night, killed the poor man’s wife, and maimed his children before he could kill it.”
Bryn silenced a gasp. “How awful.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“What are the forest folk saying about the beasts?” Valenden asked.
“We’re no strangers to wolves in this forest,” the woman informed them. “They’re predictable creatures. They stay out of our way other than sometimes stealing rabbits we’ve snared in our traps. Before now, I’d be hard-pressed to recall a time when a wolf attacked a person. These beasts are different.” She hesitated, her eyes going somewhere distant in thought, before saying, “They’re more like dogs.”
“Dogs?” Valenden asked in surprise.
“Not lap dogs,” the woman clarified. “But hunting dogs. My husband has trained dozens of hunting dogs. How these wolves stalk their prey and work together feels . . . organized somehow, as though someone trained them to do it.”
With a shudder, Bryn recalled the berserkir wolf attack on the road to Barendur Hold. “We thought they might be mindless beasts, perhaps overtaken by a disease.”
The woman raised her shoulders. “Could be, my lady. They are certainly vicious. I’m only giving you my opinion.”
As they continued on their journey, Bryn couldn’t stop worrying about this alarming new idea that the wolvesweren’tcrazed monsters driven by bloodlust but rather in complete control of their actions. She practiced her hexmarks to clear her mind, sparking fire in her palm as they rode.
“You’re getting good at that one,” Rangar observed.
“I need more experience with the amplifier hex.”
He gazed ahead where a small meadow beside a stream made for a good place for them to stop to water the horses. “Val and I can help you with that.”
While they let the horses drink from the stream, they sat on cloaks over the snowy meadow and joined hands as Ren had taught Bryn.
“Which spell do you want to amplify?” Valenden asked. “And if you say the purge one, forget it.”
“The finding spell,” she answered, pitching her gaze up at the trees. “To find a, let’s say, warbler.”
The three of them closed their eyes as Bryn had seen the kitchen maids do while concocting the fermenting hex. Bryn whispered under her breath, “jin jan en veera.”
When she’d used the finding spell previously, she’d had to focus all her energy on perceiving the slight tug which told her the vague direction to look in. She was prepared to feel the tug now, but it wasn’t gentle this time. It felt like an invisible hand grabbed her jaw and wrenched her head toward a tall hemlock.
