Wolftamer

One

Faolan

There once was a boy with no name who longed for a cloak of wolfskin.

And what a shite reason that was for him to die.

Water strikes my back as I taunt the waves, challenging the current with every sharp kick to get farther from the Isle of Lost Souls. As the shore fades, the sea darkens, waters shifting to amethyst, then labradorite, and finally pure sapphire. My muscles flag when I reach the deep as something sharp-animal-claws at my mind to turn around.

I tell the mangy beast to feck right off.

It's a funny thing. Drowning has never scared me much. Not the way it should. But dreams have a nasty habit of sinking in once they've appeared every bloody night for two moons without fail-and worse when they lack any proper imagination.

When I close my eyes at night, I'm thirteen again, dressed in the ugly frieze tunic Mam patched a dozen times over. Fur slaps my cheek thanks to the wind, snowy white and reeking of neat's-foot oil. They wouldn't let me leave the cloak behind-Mam, Da, or the others. Said it was a lesson.

Well I feckin' learned it, sure enough.

There once was a boy with no name who longed for a cloak of wolfskin.

Soft hands, silk words, and seven rings of gold.

For thirteen years, he hungered . . .

Stars spare me. A laugh tangles with the salt water on my tongue as I picture the crew's reactions. Nessa would ask what in shade's realm "silk words" were meant to be as Brona rolled her eyes at my poetic whining, and Tavin-

I pivot from the open sea to an outcropping of rock that slants from the isle proper, encircling half the bay. Shaped like a sickle, the angular black columns are painted with lichen and staggered in parts, allowing a slew of stubborn creatures to take root. Hundreds of ugly shells sprang up in the cracks just after the isle awakened, covered in warty pink knots that spurn the eyes just looking at them.

But looking isn't quite what I have in mind.

Reaching the basalt pillars, I fit a knife between my teeth and dive.

Wanting carved a hole in the boy's belly, and into that hole he tucked stories.

Trinkets, talismans, and a fury of tales.

The sea is almost painfully clear here, save for the lurid oysters and a cloud of scrawny fish with nowhere to hide. Currents split in strange patterns round the rocks, making it difficult for kelp or any weeds to take root. Saoirse's theory is that it takes time to draw life back to a place it's abandoned, magical eclipse or not.

I say the gods have a sick sense of humor, even after death.

We all dropped a few stone in the weeks following our arrival. After all, the isle had sat dormant for damn near two hundred years. There were no fish to bait, no birds or game to hunt. We scavenged what we could from the burned carcass of our ship, but there was no sure way to trade it. The lot of us might have starved outright if Oona hadn't taken a risk on some gnarled roots and sorrel, turning them into a pitiful, lumpy mash.

My stomach turns just to think of it. In truth, I might never recover from the insult.

By and by, the hollow filled, but still the lad felt empty.

So he gnawed at the very edges of himself

'Til his skin split, his bones laid bare . . .

Gods, this is a depressing story.

Halfway down the column of ribbed black stone, I find a shell and fit my blade beneath its seam. Oona swore it would be easiest to do at low tide, and easier still with her dredging tool with all its clever spikes-but then Kiara dumped a load of people on the isle and set my striker and her brother the task of feeding them all, so here I am instead.

One stubborn bastard with a dull knife and an even duller dream.

It takes effort-an irritating amount as I wrench the oyster free-but it's hardly my fault. For weeks I've been charged with hauling baskets for the grannies' washing, hoisting tents instead of sails. Then there's the fact that I'm just about the only sorry soul who knows how to weave a proper net.

Grip nearly slipping, I tuck the pitiful creature into my sack, fingers still stiff from spending so many hours crafting the damn thing.

Grand. Now to do it all over again.

Little by little, the lad's teeth wore to fine points

His ravaged flesh to clumps of fur

Until there was no longer a nameless boy

Just a wolf wearing his skin.

It becomes a sort of ritual. Catch a breath, dive, steal another oyster-sometimes two or three in one go-and for the first time in days, I feel my jaw unclench. Soon I'll have to smile again, tease the old women as I sneak bites of food early, then tug a lock of Saoirse's hair and whisper that I'm fine. She'll narrow those lovely eyes of hers but will let me get away with it so we can both keep pretending her magic doesn't see through every thread of horseshite I've ever-

My hand slips as I tense, and one of those warty pink splotches scrapes open my thumb.

"Dammit!" It's a shallow cut, barely worth the effort, but still I give it my best. "You miserable excuse for a mermaid's pissflap."

"Is that our illustrious captain I hear?"

A grin splits my face quicker than lightning as I whip around.

There on the deck of an ornately carved ship stands Nessa, her nose and cheeks flecked with dark gold freckles. She's round again, well fit after six weeks away from our diet of seaweed and mash. Her clothes are fresh and colorful, a strip of beaded pink cloth knotted around her waist. It's near identical to the new scar raked down her left cheek.

My smile tightens as I track the line of it from temple to chin.

"Surely not." Brona slots her arms through the railing beside Nessa, smirk just barely visible past her furious cloud of curls. "The Wolf of the Wild wouldn't dare take a goddess's name in vain now he's married to one." She pauses, cocking her head. "Or has Saoirse actually learned to curse since we've been away?"

"No." The word limps from my mouth-too soft, and far too bloody miserable. I tug my smile wider to make up for it. "But not for lack of trying. You wouldn't believe the drama all those grannies from Bridled Stag get up to."

"Oh, I believe it all right," Nessa says, glancing over her shoulder. "We have about ten more on board now-though you'll be pleased to find Aisling sent along a few strapping fellas as well. Gives the old birds something to live for, aye?"

I snort and push off from the rocks. "Give us a hand up, then, would you?"

"You can't just swim back the way you came?" Brona groans but ducks out of sight as Nessa's belly laugh spills over the planks. It hits me like a punch to the gut.

Gods, but I've missed them.

Alone, that wolfling pup wandered

'Til his ragged paws touched the sea

Fangs bared, heart still hungry, he howled until the sky split open

And out crawled a pack.

A rope hits the water and I swim toward it, the sack clattering against my back.

"Winds o' fury, lad, what could you possibly need that many oysters for?" Nessa asks as I sheathe my knife and wind the rope around one arm.

"They're for Saoirse." The netted strap digs into my shoulder as I fist the rope, a hundred-odd shells digging into my ribs. "And before you say anything-"

"About what?" Nessa's eyes are massive as I haul myself up and over the rail, brimming with an innocence she's not once in her life possessed. "I wouldn't dream of insulting the famous Wolf of the Wild with implications that he might need poxy, slime-covered sea creatures to, ah, rouse the pink priestess from her slumber."

"Be reasonable, Nessa." Brona throws a towel at my face before I can respond. "It's more of a drooping druid, most of the time."

"All right, you she-devils, enough!" I swat the linen away but can't fight my laughter. Damn them. "Have some respect for your king."

I expect more banter. Maybe a hug.

Instead, they both go quiet and it snatches the mirth straight from my lungs.

". . . Faolan."

"I'm fine." Voices trickle in past their silence. I square my shoulders and cock my mouth to one side, studying a group of men clustered along the port bow. "Right. Is this lot survivors, treasure seekers, or castoffs from Aisling's court?"

"The last. I think." Nessa clears her throat, wiping sea spray on her trousers. "Though it's hard to tell when everyone dresses rich on Bridled Stag-all those silks and colorful dyes."

"Hideous things, really," I say, dropping a pointed look to her waist, where the rose-hued scarf hangs. "Ought to be a punishable offense."

"Well, you can hardly blame me after the fire took all our . . ."

My palm twitches as I feel the words die between us.

"Feck. Faolan, I-"

"I said I'm fine." It's more snarl than sunshine, but the muscles in my cheeks strain from smiling and I can't be bothered to fight them any longer. I grip her shoulder once and nod toward the men. "Tell them to lose their silks when we get ashore. We'll need them unencumbered for putting up the last of the tents. And then do me a favor and pinch the best set of coat and boots you can find for me, all right?" A wink sets her shoulders at ease. "Anything but orange. You know it's not my color."

"Aye, Captain."

Nessa turns, and I make a point of ignoring Brona's hard stare, shaking it off like the chill creeping down my spine.

His wolves were fearsome and cunning

But the nameless boy knew something they did not.

Death was coming to skin his fur

Shatter his fangs

Silence his throaty howl.

It doesn't work. Brona's learned from Saoirse how much I hate the silence.

"What?"

She steps closer. "Do you know what they call you?"

I make a point of gathering my sopping hair into one hand, fisting it until water splatters the deck. "Does it matter?"

Brona sidesteps the puddle. "To you? Yes."

A groan keeps my tongue from lashing out.

With time, there would be nothing left of the legend,

The crown, the wolfskin, or his lovelorn pack.

"Spit it out, then. It can't be all that bad."

But Brona doesn't frown this time, or snap, or even sigh.

I grit my teeth. "Brona-"

"They're calling you the tamed wolf."

Given time, he would be nothing.

Just a nameless boy, once again.

I stare at her. Jaw loose, shells clanking like chains at my side.

Brona doesn't flinch as she delivers the rest. "It started with that nickname you gave Saoirse. Wolf Tamer? I don't know how, but it took off in the other courts. By the time Nessa and I made it to Bridled Stag, it was everywhere. I thought you should know. Saoirse too."

"Why Saoirse?"

Brona doesn't meet my eye as she says, "Because they say she's the one who holds your leash."

A nameless boy who longed for a cloak of-

"Well, feck."

Two

Saoirse

The first morning I woke to a cold bed, there were still ashes drifting on the wind.

Faolan's ship had burned through the night, fire flickering across the water, though it seemed dim from where we'd made our camp. Brona, Nessa, and the rest of the wolves had divided hammocks and supplies with Aisling's crew while Maccus sailed off in a fury with his men, but Faolan had gone quiet. Lost somewhere inside himself as he fashioned a bed out of ferns and blankets, never letting me out of his sight. He held me almost painfully close as the dark grew thick around us. But by sunrise, he was gone.

It's been the same for nearly twelve weeks since.

My bare feet sink into pockets of moss as I walk the path between a cave at the base of the mountain Faolan had claimed as our own and the encampments crowding the shore. Thick, silver-needled pines scatter the sunlight, casting marbled shadows that dance like the iridescent mark painted across my right hand. Slowly, I tilt it to one side, watching as colors burst across my fingers, then settle into the flesh of my palm-a reminder of the moment I claimed this island and spared my husband's soul.

Pity touching the mark doesn't summon him.

I drop my hand and press forward as faint words begin to filter through the trees.

". . . did you see . . ."

"-just this morning-"

". . . can't wake him . . ."

I stop just as the earth grows loose beneath my heels, soil and rock giving way to loamy sand. I fumble for the nearest tree, and my nails bite into the tender chasm between bark and trunk as I try to unclench my stomach. Force it to expand.

Magic is no stranger to me-at least, not anymore. I no longer shy from the touch of another person for fear I'll claim their lives or drive them mad. Visions rise and fall like the swelling of the tide, easy to manage, and sometimes ignore. Faced with one or two distraught souls, I can manage just fine.

But twelve? Twenty?

The voices rise and, with them, an overwhelming wave of panic-one that breaks against my mental barriers until I am the panic, terror consuming my flesh.

"He's gone all stiff!"

"Maira guard his soul."

Iron-wrapped shock strikes me in the chest as grief threatens to send me to my knees. Pain, loss, horror-so poignantly felt in their mortal bodies-echo threefold within my own. Tears well in my eyes as I double over, unable to so much as gasp as I drag my thumb over the wolf ring, pressing down until the physical pain reminds me I am here.

The wave breaks, and I am my own again.

Breathless and shaking.

Stars.

I flatten my hand over the ragged tree's bark as the clamor begins to settle, breathing deep enough to expel every lingering ounce of emotion from my veins. It's a struggle not to turn back after-a fight against every instinct I've cultivated over the last twenty-three years to protect myself. But even if I tried to flee, they'd only send another messenger to bring me back.