Mutters of agreement. “Well, enough for now,” Aramal said. “We’ve a harvest to get in. Dust, I assume you’ll tell the others? Lessen you wish to be pickin’ grapes?”
Dust’s tongue lolled out.
“Thought not,” Aramal said. “We’ll be all night pickin’, Dithen. Rest yourself and we’ll have questions later.”
The group filed out and Latarie shut the door behind them. “Dust, before you join the others, there’s something you need to know.” She caught Dithen’s eye. “Dithen,” she said loudly. “Would you mind fetching wood for the fire?”
There was no need that Vren could see—the wood box was full and the fire burned high. But he nodded anyway and rose from his chair.
“Such a kind young man,” the Chosen said.
“The pile’s just by the path.” Latarie said.
Vren went out into the cold. He could see the lanterns of the pickers in the field, the large, brightly-lit sheds waiting for the grapes. Cold, hard work, he expected, but he’d heard wonderful things about icewine. Indeed, all the wines of Athelbryght had always been praised.
Giving Latarie time to say what she needed, Vren took his ease. After a few minutes he gathered an armful of wood and returned to the kitchen, loudly stomping his feet clear of snow before pushing open the door. The Chosen was still in her rocker, Dust at her side. Latarie was poking the fire.
“And who might you be, young man?” the Chosen asked.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It was with a heavy heart that Dust entered the Packmoot.
The others had already gathered at their traditional meeting spot. The twelve birch trees originally planted in a circle around the small clearing had long since died and fallen to rot on the forest floor. But their seedlings had taken root, and their seedlings had taken root, and the birch grove thrived.
The night was cold and clear, with no wind. The vore could easily hear, in the distance, the vineyards full of ice grapes being harvested.
Fog came up to greet her, and in the way of the vore, spoke. “Dust. You have seen the Chosen?”
“Yes,” Dust didn’t have to say anything else, her body showed him her sorrow.
Fog nuzzled her muzzle for a moment. “Any sign?” he asked.
Dust shook her head. “No, I found no child born with the dagger-star birthmark.”
“Nor did any others,” Fog said. “Although those that ventured out to Tassinic and the ancient Elven Kingdom beyond have yet to report.” Fog tilted his head. “You returned with a marcus,” he observed, his voice neutral.
“Aye,” Dust said. “Hard enough to bear news of the human world without a human to speak the words.”
“Humans,” Fluff snorted, coming up behind her.
“We were once of them,” Dust said mildly.
“Once,” Fluff growled. “No longer. And I do not think that we should trouble ourselves overmuch with—”
“Let us begin,” Whiskers shook herself and took her place in the center of their circle. The others settled around her. “Dust, what tale would you tell?”
Dust told them of the war, of the lack of finding a Chosen. She was honest about Vren and that fact that he was a marcus, but found herself unwilling to share the truth of Xylara’s birth. That seemed his story to tell, not hers.
“No one has found a Chosen,” Fog summarized. “Although we have not yet heard back from all that we sent seeking.”
“We should have sent further, out even into the Plains,” Bright Fang growled. “Yes, yes, I know the dangers,” he continued when others snapped at him. “But there are humans beyond where we have searched. We could have sent humans to aid the search.”
“We have fallen into a trap of hoping,” Long Tongue said. “Thinking that a Chosen would be born before our beloved lady passed. Yet a Chosen has not been born and our beloved lady will soon leave this world.”
“Piss poor way to determine governance, if you ask me,” grumbled Sassy. “A birthmark, of all things.”
“We did not ask, nor question, when we gave Red Gloves and Lord High Baron Josiah our pledge,” Fog said. “Now that the path grows dark, you would abandon it?”
