Page 9 of Wolf Duke

Evaine glanced longingly in the direction of the library.

Would one more visit really be so bad?

“Nearly home, Your G…er…my king.”

Alaric glanced sideways at Wesley as they loped along the snow-covered countryside, entirely unamused at the gleeful twinkle in his squire’s eyes. The wolfling always behaved when they were beyond pack lands. However, the closer they were to Blackstone Castle and his mother Blanche’s fierce protection, the bolder he became. But right now, when Alaric was freezing his balls off in the frigid dawn air and his stomach still churned from lackluster fare at the two human inns they’d stopped at, he was in no mood for jests about his wretched “gift” from Henry. “Blackstone is still several miles away, boyo. Far enough that your mother couldn’t save you if you fell down a well.”

Wesley huffed out a breath. “Diplomats never say what they mean. King Darius would simply lift me by the throat and growl I’m going to kill you. But you very nicely, very calmly, utter things like ‘if you fell down a well’. Doesn’t it ever get weary, playing word games?”

Yes.

In human form, Alaric might have sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose for it was too damned cold and too damned early for such a probing question. Wesley did that sometimes, amongst his mischievous antics and undoubted squire skills: asked a question that was startlingly insightful. One day he might well be an excellent advisor.

Today was definitely not that day.

Besides, even on his own lands and with excellent wolf vision, Alaric didn’t like to linger outside in this unholy brew of fresh snow, blustery wind, and pitch-black darkness. It was the kind of weather only mercenaries and brigands enjoyed, not to mention that his guards, carts and luggage, and horses were far behind them. Usually, he and Wesley remained with the procession, especially when transporting important documents or gifts. But for some unknown reason, his senses were urging him to return to the castle with all haste.

Was there a threat nearby? Had his mother been injured during her planned hunt?

Anything was possible with so many mercenaries lurking. Although Alaric ruthlessly crushed the violent packs whenever they emerged, there were always more. Also, the risk would only grow now the bounty on the de Wynter heirs had increased again, and he’d been made a bloody duke by the human king. Wolves would deem that a weakness to be exploited.

“Forget word games, think only on being a squire, wolfling,” growled Alaric eventually. “Perhaps one day you’ll master that.”

“Come now,” said Wesley, his pale eyes glinting in the darkness. “Even the great King of the Western Lands could admit I am most adequate. Praise me. I dare you.”

In truth, he was most adequate.

The wolfling might try Alaric’s patience daily, but Wesley had become rather accomplished with bow and arrow, had a skilled touch with horses, and took great care with Alaric’s belongings. As a young wolf, he was also much smaller and leaner, so created no spectacle in a human crowd—a rather useful information-gathering tool within palaces. It would be a sad day indeed when Wesley fully matured and ventured away to find his mate, for the wolfling provided a great deal of mood-easing entertainment at Blackstone Castle. Much as Alaric loved and respected his mother the elder queen, they did quarrel on occasion. She had never accepted Theda, actually daring to claim his mate was an imposter who had etched a mark on her neck and his wrist.

Alaric cursed under his breath. No. Theda had been his mate, she had passed without experiencing a breeding heat, and now he would be alone until his own death. He just had to accept that fact. As did his mother.

“I don’t puff smoke on demand,” he replied. “If you receive praise from me, you’ll have earned it. Besides, Blanche commends you enough for everyone.”

Wesley groaned theatrically then threw himself onto a mound of snow, rolled onto his back and twitched his tail in the air. “Mother praise and king praise are two very different things. If you refuse, I shall hurl myself down, hmmm, at least two feet. Do you truly want no injury whatsoever weighing heavily on your soul?”

Somehow, Alaric quelled both his irritation and reluctant amusement. Was this what it felt like to be a father? A constant inner war of pride and exasperation as they were provoked by wolflings? “Very well. At the Eltham armory, Henry complimented me on my sword and horse. Said I must have a competent squire.”

Wesley sprang up, shook the snow from his fur and preened before marching once more. “I would tell Henry he seems adequate for a human king, even if his line is completely unexceptional. I mean he’s hardly following an ancient line of legends…like the Beaumonts.”

Alaric’s lips twitched. “Perhaps you’ll succeed as a courtier after all. But first you must master the skill of silence.”

“Yes, my king. From now until we reach the castle, not a single word shall pass my lips. Even if you beg me to speak. Even if I fall down a well. Nothing. I am mute.”

Leto, give me strength.

However, as Blackstone Castle’s imposing towers finally came into view, Alaric found himself bounding down the road, so swiftly that Wesley made a low whine of protest as he struggled to keep up.

When Alaric approached the drawbridge, he paused and howled, a long, low guttural sound to let all and sundry know their king had returned. Moments later, guards with torches appeared, and the sound of clinking chains echoed in the chilly air as the portcullis was raised.

Once inside the safety of the castle courtyard, he and Wesley entered a small gatehouse filled with a variety of warm clothing and changed into human form. These days Alaric rarely even considered the process; for him it happened quickly and relatively painlessly, a brief stretching and crunching as his limbs elongated, his fangs became teeth, claws became fingers and toes, fur became a dusting of body hair, and his tail disappeared. Poor Wesley took much longer; it could be rather miserable for wolflings, but still better than a cub’s first change, which was pure agony. However, no matter how old or experienced the wolf, every change resulted in a naked human form, hence the clothing to wear.

“Ready?” asked Alaric, now fully dressed in linen shirt, woolen hose, and fur-lined doublet.

“Ready,” said Wesley, nodding as he hastily fastened his hose.

Surprisingly, Alaric’s mother waited outside the gatehouse. While he was relieved to see her hale and hearty, it was highly unusual for her to greet him at such an early hour. Queen Siân loathed mornings.

“My son and king,” she said, curtsying deeply.