Page 8 of Wolf Duke

Every female she’d seen had a gold girdle, and their hair was plaited, twisted into a circle, and secured by pretty gold combs. Each male’s hose was fastened to their breech belt with a gold buckle, and all their swords had golden hilts. It had made her jaw drop, how casually such a precious and expensive metal was used, but Blanche had explained that the Beaumonts owned many goldmines, far, far more than the humans knew of, and the supply was plentiful. Now Evaine thought about it, King Cyrus and Queen Siân had brought gifts of gold when they’d visited Ashcross Castle. Mother had shaken her head and muttered about spoiled cubs when she’d found her young playfully kicking and batting around palm-sized nuggets.

Yet here at Blackstone, aside from the delicious food, skilled servants, and outrageous amount of gold…there was a specific scent she couldn’t stay away from. Somehow it rose above the usual castle smells like meat roasting, wood burning, crushed herbs in the apothecary, beeswax candles, and damp mud from the moat outside. If asked to describe the scent she would sound quite mad, because it was all her favorites blended together: summer rain, green leaves, salt air, fresh lemon, warm leather and a full-bodied red wine. But it didn’t matter how often Evaine prowled the castle, she couldn’t seem to find the source…although it did seem strongest in the king’s library.

To her great shame she had turned a little feral in there, rubbing her head against shelves of leather-bound books, rolling around on a woven rug, and actually curling up on a huge carved oak chair. Leto forgive her, she’d practically licked the soft leather armrests. It was so strange. She knew how to behave like a princess, yet the scent made her feel…wild. Hot and tingly inside.

“Princess? Are you awake?”

Evaine jerked her head up at the elder wolf’s words. “Come in, Blanche. I was just woolgathering.”

Blanche smiled. “I won’t tarry, but Queen Siân has returned from her hunt and wishes to visit. Oh, and we’ve received word that King Alaric has departed London and will be here by dawn.”

“I’m at the queen’s command,” replied Evaine, gulping. “Whenever she is ready.”

“I’ll let her know,” said Blanche, bobbing a quick curtsy before hurrying away.

Evaine stared at the fire, her belly churning. How would the queen receive her? Siân and Mother had trod warily around each other; while they were similar in temperament, they had very different backgrounds. The Queen of the Western Lands hailed from an ancient line of Welsh aristocratic wolves and met her king at a joust, while Mother had been an outcast and met Father in a tavern. But Siân had suffered greatly; she’d endured a long and difficult travail to birth her only cub. And now she was a widow after the loss of her beloved mate.

Miserably, Evaine examined her ragged gray fur, and only slightly less gaunt frame. In no way did she resemble a princess, the blooded daughter of King Hugo. If only she could change!

“Good afternoon. I trust you are enjoying your stay at Blackstone Castle.”

The accent was low and musical, but the words were exceedingly cool. Evaine scrambled inelegantly off the cushions, then turned and knelt on her front legs, a show of submission to Siân Dafydd Beaumont, Queen of the Western Lands. Even in human form the queen was magnificent, tall and plump and beautiful. As wolves abhorred headdresses, her silver-laced black hair was plaited, coiled about her ears, and covered with a sheer gold veil. But her golden eyes glowed with fierce intelligence, her creamy skin boasted few lines, and although she wore a simple blue velvet gown with slashed sleeves and square neckline, Queen Siân looked noble.

“I thank you, Queen Siân of the Western Lands, for your generous hospitality. Please forgive my current state, I am unable to change at present—”

“You claim to be Princess Evaine of the Eastern Lands,” said the queen sharply as she moved closer and gripped Evaine’s muzzle. “Others might be fooled by a tale of woe in winter, but not I. There shall be no more imposters in this royal court. Look at me.”

Slowly, Evaine raised her head and met the older wolf’s steely gaze.

Queen Siân sucked in a harsh breath. “A familiar green, but I’ll hear more proof. Tell me something only a de Wynter would know.”

This was the occasion to ignore her sire’s counsel and be bold. Her very future depended on it. “Mother and Father sent me away with two ladies and two warriors before Guy Saville attacked Ashcross Castle. I’ve been in hiding for ten long years, the last two entirely alone, and I don’t know where my sisters and brother are. I miss them more than words can describe. As for something only a de Wynter would know…the last time I saw you and King Cyrus, he gifted us cubs with a black velvet sack of large gold nuggets, twice the size of our paws, to play with.”

The silence was so prolonged that the crackle and hiss of the fire sounded louder than a gunpowder explosion. Then the hand gripping Evaine’s muzzle slid further up to gently scratch behind her ears, the motherly touch unleashing a broken howl from the very depths of Evaine’s soul.

“Come here, sweet one,” said Queen Siân softly, sinking onto the pile of cushions and holding out her arms.

Evaine was far too big to curl up on the other wolf’s lap, but that didn’t stop her trying; she nearly knocked the queen over in her yearning to be petted and soothed like a cub. “I lost everyone I loved,” she choked out.

“I know,” said the queen, as she stroked Evaine’s fur and began carefully removing the stubborn burrs. “Such loss is an unendurable pain that does not lessen with time, no matter what the poets say. But you must get up when knocked down, or that monster Guy Saville wins. You are alive, Evaine, and that is a most wondrous victory, a ray of light in the darkness. I know Alaric, my son and king, will proclaim that as long as the usurper holds the Book of Lore and the Eastern throne, you may remain as our most honored guest. If it pleases you, of course.”

“It does,” sniffled Evaine, shamelessly bunting the queen’s hand for more ear-scratching. Being starved of food was one thing, but in many ways, being starved of touch and affection was equally terrible. Now was not the time for a full-grown wolf’s pride. “I adore Blackstone Castle. I swear it welcomed me when I arrived. Everything is lovely and it smells so divine.”

Queen Siân laughed. “You mean the kitchens? I will confess I am easily lured from my bed by the aroma of freshly prepared meat—our cook has a skilled hand.”

“No, the other scent. I get faint wafts of it everywhere, in the Great Hall and the solar and the shrine to Leto and her divine twins. However, I cannot find the source. It is strongest in the king’s library and I just want to roll around in it all the time…oh, forgive me, that was crass,” finished Evaine awkwardly, as the other wolf’s hand actually stilled.

“Is it one scent, like a flower?” asked the queen quietly. “Or perhaps many scents together, all of them pleasing?”

Evaine turned her head, her eyes widening. “Many. How did you know that? I thought I was losing my wits.”

The strangest expression crossed Queen Siân’s face, as though she felt great joy and great pain at the same time. But how could that be? And why would such emotions be provoked over talk of a mystery scent?

“You are not losing your wits, my dear,” said the queen eventually. “But we shall see how the ribbon unfolds. In the meantime, you need to rest. And eat. The sooner you are stronger, the sooner you’ll be able to change. I shall join you here for supper later, and we can talk some more.”

“Of course,” said Evaine eagerly.

After one more affectionate head scratch, the queen departed, and Evaine settled once again in front of the fire. It was disconcerting how swiftly she’d felt at home here, although…