Children of the Wolves Read Free Page A

drew her breath to protest but Michael turned his river-blue gaze to meet hers. Their eyes locked. The challenge in his eyes was determined and stubborn. Why did he want to blame the wolves for this attack? They had not done it. Her jaw tightened but Jelena turned away first. What difference did it make? When had anyone ever heard her voice?
    The crowd began to move, some of the villagers stepping forward to pick up the trader and carry him to the infirmary where he would await the rites, the weavers to prepare the shroud he would be burned in, the potters to throw the urn he would be buried in, the others to curl sleepless in their beds and remember the kindnesses of their best friend.
    For a long time, Jelena stood in the courtyard and wondered what — and who — would be next.
    â€¢ • •
    â€œIt wasn’t wolves,” Jelena said as she walked up the porch steps, she and Michael alone for the first time in hours. To Jelena it felt like days.
    â€œWhat do you want me to say?” Michael asked. The fatigue and strain of the evening was evident in his tone, still patient but tightly controlled, verging on quarrelsome.
    Jelena shook her head impatiently. She didn’t want him to say words that she supplied him with. Why did he try to put her off that way? Why couldn’t he have this conversation with her? Was it because he didn’t take her seriously enough? She was still newlyborn, despite all the years that had passed. She would never be someone he took seriously. He would never imagine her as his equal, his partner. It would simply never occur to him. The knowledge sliced at her heart. She took a deep, trembling breath; he must never know what she wished. She could not bear it if he found out her secret. He would pity her for it.
    The floor creaked beneath their feet as they entered the main hall. Matilda, the night-keeper, scurried by, saying hurriedly to them as she passed, “The fourth hour of night, already.” She had a strained expression on her face as she headed out the door to alert the sentries.
    Night-keeper and day-keeper were tasks the unawakened performed admirably and the people wanted their unawakened to feel valued. They had all heard stories that other tribes — out there beyond the protection of the trees — exiled their unawakened. How long could the unawakened last beyond the range of the gathering fire? They condemned the unawakened to death. How much more compassionate were the people.
    â€œWe can’t go on like this, Michael.” Jelena meant we in myriad meanings, but mostly she meant you and I .
    â€œWhat choice have we?” he asked as he pushed open the slatted door that led to their quarters. Like the hanging half doors the desert tribes used, the Wudu-faesten’s slatted doors offered privacy while allowing cooler, circulating air to reach them. Jelena and Michael often kept the door open this time of year, to tempt any stray breeze into the space. Some of the other newlyborn and their protectors argued over this — door open or closed — but Michael and Jelena never had.
    They never argued over anything, except the fact that she was unawakened and thought he should leave her to perform more important tasks. Even then it couldn’t really be called arguing. Jelena likened it to trying to persuade the Stone Mountains to listen to her side of the story. One might hear the echo of one’s own words, but the mountains stood there, impenetrable and unmoving.
    She wanted to tell him about the wolves and what they meant to her, and how much she wanted to be his lover, his partner, how desperately she longed to be free of the protection of the trees and to venture beyond the fence. But her words would only alarm him. She sighed. It was not just one secret she kept, was it?
    A curtain — thin netting in the summer, heavy brocade in the winter — separated her small sleeping alcove from the main room where he slept and