ones who don’t. Considers . . . and considers withdrawing, as well. Delicious to know you could have him. Delicious to know that you could
save
him.
Delicious to know that you can choose not to, and leave him to his fate.
Surely, it’s a harmless hobby. A way to pass the time, a little cruel pleasure while the world winds down. Surely it is only the cord binding his neck that makes his breath sting when the child catches his eye and—puzzled—frowns as if he thought he knew him. It’s like a gift, a little added joy in the end of everything, that Strifbjorn is back for him.
The wolf barely admits it, even to himself. But this time, he considers, they might die together.
He stands, the chair scraping because he does not care to prevent it. He wipes his mouth on the back of his glove, the last sting of liquor fading, and shrugs his shoulders to make the cloak swing free. There’s scrip in his pocket; it’s easy to come by. He pulls his presence around himself, the stillness of aspect, the conscious smile. The boy still smells like Strifbjorn.
C all.
Muire staggered, cradling her broken hand to her armored breast. Age-rounded stones clutched her boots; she stumbled, but pride stopped her fall. The voice rolled over her like storm air rolling down the flank of a mountain. Not Ingraham’sthready memorial plaint, nor the harsh luxuriant purr of the Grey Wolf’s flawed seduction. This was as silent, but also resonant, electric. She knew it in her bosom, her throat, her spine.
“Kasimir.”
She meant to think it only, but her lips shaped the valraven’s name.
Call to me , he chanted.
I’m fine.
His silence was a tolling bell.
“I’m
fine
!”
If you were not arrogant, beloved, he would not have done what he did to you and walked free.
It wasn’t arrogance. Muire shook her head, forcing her spine straight when she wanted to cringe protectively over her hand. It wasn’t arrogance.
But it would be arrogance to say so.
Together we might match a wolf. He showed her flashing teeth, eyes like furnaces, sdadown shredded in the bloody snow. She glanced down. There are only us three left in the world — and perhaps one other. Let us be allies again.
“One other?”
There was the Serpent. He was not yet dead on the Last Day.
“If he’s not dead, he’s abandoned us.” But Kasimir was right. Right also that alone she was not Mingan’s equal. The Grey Wolf had always been greater.
This was not the first time Kasimir had spoken to her since they parted among the dead. But it was the first time he’d spoken to her since she
knew
their old grinning nemesis walked the bones of the earth, a silver earring in his ear.
It wasn’t arrogance. And it wasn’t pride that kept her from the valraven.
And if it wasn’t either, she could swallow both to call for help, when duty demanded.
You are wounded. The voice came like the voice of the soul that speaks a true love’s name. Muire flinched to hear it. The dawn breathed over Eiledon and the undercity, vampiric, glided toward slumber. Above, where she could not see them, jeweled lights would be twinkling out sudden as falling stars.
A wet, ripe smell rose from the gutters. She bent, wobbling on unsteady knees, and smoothed the hair of the murdered boy.
Rest in my shadow.
That was the joy—and the pain—of the Grey Wolf’s offer; to be no more alone. She left the body where it had fallen and walked on, toward the scentless, sterile river.
We are the Light that remains.
She stood in a narrow courtyard overlooking a small quay and watched the water ripple. His silence nagged her like a splinter. “Come,” she said, and he did so.
The wind that struck her reeked of the forge and was loud as the rattle of shaken metal. The shroud of his wings scraped the walls on either side, black and glittering. He tossed his antlered head, the heat rolling from his body like a physical blow. But his eyes were calm and moist and alive, and he curved his necks to
save
him.
Delicious to know that you can choose not to, and leave him to his fate.
Surely, it’s a harmless hobby. A way to pass the time, a little cruel pleasure while the world winds down. Surely it is only the cord binding his neck that makes his breath sting when the child catches his eye and—puzzled—frowns as if he thought he knew him. It’s like a gift, a little added joy in the end of everything, that Strifbjorn is back for him.
The wolf barely admits it, even to himself. But this time, he considers, they might die together.
He stands, the chair scraping because he does not care to prevent it. He wipes his mouth on the back of his glove, the last sting of liquor fading, and shrugs his shoulders to make the cloak swing free. There’s scrip in his pocket; it’s easy to come by. He pulls his presence around himself, the stillness of aspect, the conscious smile. The boy still smells like Strifbjorn.
C all.
Muire staggered, cradling her broken hand to her armored breast. Age-rounded stones clutched her boots; she stumbled, but pride stopped her fall. The voice rolled over her like storm air rolling down the flank of a mountain. Not Ingraham’sthready memorial plaint, nor the harsh luxuriant purr of the Grey Wolf’s flawed seduction. This was as silent, but also resonant, electric. She knew it in her bosom, her throat, her spine.
“Kasimir.”
She meant to think it only, but her lips shaped the valraven’s name.
Call to me , he chanted.
I’m fine.
His silence was a tolling bell.
“I’m
fine
!”
If you were not arrogant, beloved, he would not have done what he did to you and walked free.
It wasn’t arrogance. Muire shook her head, forcing her spine straight when she wanted to cringe protectively over her hand. It wasn’t arrogance.
But it would be arrogance to say so.
Together we might match a wolf. He showed her flashing teeth, eyes like furnaces, sdadown shredded in the bloody snow. She glanced down. There are only us three left in the world — and perhaps one other. Let us be allies again.
“One other?”
There was the Serpent. He was not yet dead on the Last Day.
“If he’s not dead, he’s abandoned us.” But Kasimir was right. Right also that alone she was not Mingan’s equal. The Grey Wolf had always been greater.
This was not the first time Kasimir had spoken to her since they parted among the dead. But it was the first time he’d spoken to her since she
knew
their old grinning nemesis walked the bones of the earth, a silver earring in his ear.
It wasn’t arrogance. And it wasn’t pride that kept her from the valraven.
And if it wasn’t either, she could swallow both to call for help, when duty demanded.
You are wounded. The voice came like the voice of the soul that speaks a true love’s name. Muire flinched to hear it. The dawn breathed over Eiledon and the undercity, vampiric, glided toward slumber. Above, where she could not see them, jeweled lights would be twinkling out sudden as falling stars.
A wet, ripe smell rose from the gutters. She bent, wobbling on unsteady knees, and smoothed the hair of the murdered boy.
Rest in my shadow.
That was the joy—and the pain—of the Grey Wolf’s offer; to be no more alone. She left the body where it had fallen and walked on, toward the scentless, sterile river.
We are the Light that remains.
She stood in a narrow courtyard overlooking a small quay and watched the water ripple. His silence nagged her like a splinter. “Come,” she said, and he did so.
The wind that struck her reeked of the forge and was loud as the rattle of shaken metal. The shroud of his wings scraped the walls on either side, black and glittering. He tossed his antlered head, the heat rolling from his body like a physical blow. But his eyes were calm and moist and alive, and he curved his necks to
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