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Rowan watched as the rabbit roasted on the spit, its skin crackling and grease dripping from the flesh and into the fire. The quiet of the woods—its sheer solitude and immense scope—pressed down on him. Rowan reached for his scabbard and withdrew his longsword. The sound of scraping steel filled the night.
He’d see them hanging if he looked at the trees too long.
All those dead bodies.
That poor young boy he’d cut down and laid to rest.
He felt Edrick’s gentle touch and heard his friend’s plea. “Are you willing to pay with your life? That of your family’s? Please, Rowan, as your friend, I beg you to consider the consequences… I care for you far too much.”
Rowan brought the whetstone down along the blade, again and again, sharpening it, preparing himself for a battle he’d never win. The sound of stone scraping steel swelled the emptiness unnaturally. And beneath that sound, he heard the thud of his own heart.
A light snow had fallen an hour earlier. Rowan moved closer to the fire, admiring how the flames danced, soaking in the warmth. He watched the snowflakes glide toward him and melt above the flames, disappearing into a black oblivion.
Absently, he brought the stone down the sword’s sleek length as his wife’s face took shape in his mind.
Again, the whetstone slid down the sleek metal.
The blade seemed to scream as the stone came down. The steel was alive with the fire’s glow.
Blood. So much blood.
He remembered the words his wife had said to him before he’d left for his campaign. “You are a pretender. When Bartholomew knighted you, he made a mockery of all of Norland.” She’d always called him Bartholomew—not the king and not King Bartholomew.
Her fond and familiar note hadn’t been lost on Rowan.
He watched the snow fall and carpet the dirt floor. A thick silence hit him hard. He stared at his left hand, suspended in midair, and realized he’d paused while sharpening his blade.
He felt eyes on him. He dropped the whetstone and stared into the impenetrable darkness of the woods. All he could make out were the skeletal lines of the trees. The scent of the woods intoxicated him—a complex bouquet of earthiness and pine mingled with a hint of frost. The trees, cloaked in their winter coats, stood sentinel, their branches glistening like crystal chandeliers.
The distant hoot of an owl echoed, adding a haunting quality to the night.
The wood was alive with hidden creatures. Their presence was felt more than seen.
A wind rattled the tree branches.
Rowan held his breath and sat up a little straighter.
More black came out of the black. It was a giant wolf, its yellow eyes shining like lanterns. The firelight danced across its sleek, dark coat, making parts of it look almost blue-black. The wolf angled its large head toward the crackling meat and sniffed at the air. Saliva ran from its jaws and splattered on the snowy ground.
The beast was beautiful in its dark stillness.
Rowan should have wielded his sword and threatened the intruder back into the darkness from whence it came. Instead, he felt himself rising to his feet slowly; his hand reached for the rabbit, moving like an alien thing independent of the rest of him. He tore off a dripping limb. He felt it dampen his fingers and slide down his palm as he lifted the morsel in midair. The wolf lowered its head again and cautiously stepped forward, those glowing eyes never parting from his.
Another sniff. Drool fell from its jaws. Its teeth were long and dagger-like.
The wolf emitted a low, rich growl that reminded Rowan of rolling thunder. That sound rose from the darkness, then dropped away as if fading into the very night. The wolf stalked forward with slow and measured steps, the hunger in its eyes a tangible force. Snow dusted its dark coat, clashing against the fur, melting within moments from the wolf’s body heat. It raised a paw and growled again.
“Here, mon ami,” he whispered, outstretching his hand to offer the rabbit leg. “No need to be afraid,” he said more to himself.
With a few cautious steps, he closed the distance between them. Rowan dropped the meat and released his breath. The beast devoured it as he knew it would. He licked his mouth, those sharp teeth flashing. Long tendrils of slaver dripped to the ground.
Rowan glanced at the pommel of his sword—at the snarling wolf’s head. He held out his hand and waited. The wolf took another step forward, his teeth bared, then lowered his muzzle to his knuckles. He sniffed at his flesh, then stared up at him. Slowly, Rowan tore another limb from the rabbit and fed it to him from his hand.
He took it quickly.
The wolf was starving and all alone.
Rowan lowered onto the ground again, his back resting against a tall oak tree. He unskewered the rabbit with his sword and broke off chunks for him and the wolf. As the night deepened, he heard his voice filling the silence.
