Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale by Tracy Falbe Page A

spell
upon you. It’s probably why you can’t remember much. I suggest we
burn it right away,” Ondrej said.
    Aghast, Thal snatched the fur off the desk.
“It’s from my father,” he insisted. “And I was not attacked by
anyone.”
    “You must give it up. Your soul could be at
stake. This evil hide must have some charm upon it that will
probably drive you back into the forest,” Ondrej said.
    Thal contained his anger. Ondrej meant well.
There was no malice in him, and Thal took that into account. He did
not wish to be a poor guest. “Thank you for your time. It was
kindly given,” he said.
    He stepped toward the door but Ondrej stopped
him with a hand on his arm. “Son, stay for Mass and take the
Eucharist. You can confess to our priest,” he said.
    “I must think on what you have told me,” Thal
said evasively and pulled his arm loose.
    The abrupt conclusion of the meeting
disappointed Andreli who saw no way to bring up the subject of beer
again. Wishing to leave on good terms with the monk who had always
been generous, he said, “Please don’t think ill of Thal. I never
expected you to say his fur was unholy.”
    Thal arranged the fur over his shoulders
again. The soft hairs caressed his neck. His heart told him it was
an exceptionally sacred thing although certainly not in a way that
Brother Ondrej could accept or understand. Thal left the room,
unwilling to stay near the man who had suggested he burn the fur.
Andreli could handle the goodbyes.
    Thal walked straight out the gate and stopped
by a hedge to wait for Andreli. He took off the fur again and
looked at its lettering. Although the monk had not given him much
information, he remembered the words that had been read. He ran a
finger along them and said slowly, “Bin rum aptudarn. Cass lupu
trinostulio.” Then he struggled onward sounding out more letters.
The knowledge of how to read it was in his mind, but long disuse
had left his literacy stuck like stones in a frozen field. As he
ground out a few more words, he heard in his mind his father
chanting the words. The meaning eluded him but this was a powerful
message, and Thal suspected that it was a path back to his wolf
form.
    But should he pursue it? He suspected that
some spell had yanked him back into the world of men for a
reason.
    “Thal?”
    He whirled. Andreli was behind him. The Gypsy
flinched because Thal wheeled upon him so defensively.
    Clearing his mind, Thal said, “I’m sorry if I
spoiled your chances for beer.”
    Andreli waved a hand. “Not your fault. Our
stay in this area is about played out I fear.”
    “So you’ll be moving?” Thal said.
    “It’s what Gypsies do, but I’m not sure where
to go. No one is ever happy to see us,” Andreli said. Complaining
to Thal felt safe. In front of his people Andreli had to project
confidence. He must not burden them with confessions about his
weariness of heart. His father had taught him that.
    The two men walked along in silence. They
skirted the village and cut into the woods along the river.
    Thal feared that he was the cause of
Andreli’s heavy mood. “Do you think I am bewitched?” he asked.
    The Gypsy kept staring straight ahead and
walking. “Do you think you are?” he finally asked.
    “I think I’m more than bewitched,” Thal
admitted.
    “Oh,” Andreli said. He was quite out of his
league he realized. Believing in the supernatural was easy except
when it walked and talked and put meat on your plate and was
pleasing to be around. Then the supernatural just seemed like a man
who had no home and needed some clothes on his back.
    “Do I frighten you?” Thal said.
    “No!” Andreli declared. He set a fraternal
hand on Thal’s shoulder to show his sincerity.
    “May I stay with you, at least a while
longer?” Thal asked.
    “Yes,” Andreli said.
    “Please don’t tell anyone what Brother Ondrej
thought about me,” Thal said.
    “All right,” Andreli said although he was not
sure how he was going to sidestep