For the Wolf by Hannah Whitten (freda ebook reader .txt) 📕

century, he said. Not ever. “So you brought the others here?”

He stiffened, just slightly. “Merra came once.”

“Only once?”

“It was all she had time for.” Eammon quickened his pace, and Red had to nearly run to keep up. Still, her eyes narrowed at his back.

The path opened into a wide market square, open-air stalls hemmed in by larger structures of wood and rock. Musicians gathered around a tree carved of stone in the square’s center, so realistic that Red half expected the leaves to rustle. A pretty girl with silver-blond hair to her knees whirled in graceful circles to the drumbeat. She winked at Eammon, but when her eyes caught on Red, she faltered in her spinning. A quick recovery, then she tossed Red a wink, too.

The square was loud and crowded, sellers hawking everything from livestock and produce to jewelry and furniture. Red tried and failed to keep from staring. “Is the Edge their only city?”

Eammon caught her arm, pulling her out of the way of a laden cart. He kept his hold once the cart passed, and Red made no move to pull away.

“There are a few others, farther from the Wilderwood,” he said. “Not many, though.” His eyes tilted up for a moment, like he was calculating in his head. “The whole territory is about the size of Floriane, I think.”

An entire country, hidden in fog and frozen in time. Red cocked a brow. “How do you know how big Floriane is?”

“I’ve seen maps, Redarys.”

“Not any recent ones, I’d wager. Geography has changed in the past five hundred years, Wolf.”

“Perhaps you can teach me, then.”

“Perhaps. You seem studious.”

“One of my many admirable qualities.”

“Bold that you think I meant it as a compliment.” But she grinned as she said it, and so did he as he lightly pinched her arm.

Eammon led them across the road, stopped before a stone building with a colorful stall set up in front. Bells hung from the corners, and swaths of fabric made the stall’s roof. Clothes were folded on tables and hanging from beams, a fluttering army of gowns in forest colors, made in designs out of the past.

A woman with charcoal-silver hair braided elaborately around her head smiled when she saw Eammon. A younger woman sat beside her, hair strawberry gold, worn loose and threaded with flowers.

Eammon nodded to the older woman. “Asheyla.”

“Wolf.” The woman’s blue eyes moved to Red, appraising and wondering at once. “And this must be the Lady. I’d heard you’d bestowed the title, finally.” She dipped her head. “Congratulations and blessings on your marriage, Lady Wolf.”

The title made Red’s spine straighten. “You can just call me Red.”

“I have one more thing to add to my tab,” Eammon said, gesturing to Red’s cloak. “Can you mend this?”

“I can mend anything, boy, even a cloak that looks like it’s been shredded for thread.” Asheyla looked Red up and down, scrutinizing. “It looks like everything else you ordered for her will fit. Someone”— her eyes flitted to Eammon— “didn’t give me precise measurements.” Gracefully, she turned toward the building, calling over her shoulder to the other girl. “I’ll be back momentarily, Loreth.”

The shop was empty, and the stone walls muffled the noises of the market outside. Wooden mannequins in the corners wore pinned-together gowns. Looms with half-completed bolts of fabric lined the back wall, and the counter held boot soles and strips of leather.

Inside, Asheyla gave Red’s cloak another once-over, pale brows pulling together. “Are you sure you don’t just want a new cloak?” she asked. “This one has enough holes that mending it will come to nearly the same amount of fabric.”

“Mended,” Eammon said from behind Red, close enough that his breath stirred her hair. A brief pause. “I’ll send Fife with more instructions.”

Her brow quirked, but Asheyla didn’t argue. Red shrugged out of the cloak, running the tattered length between her hands before handing it to the shopkeeper. Her reluctance to part with it must’ve shown on her face— the older woman’s expression softened. When she folded the cloak in her arms, she did it with obvious care.

“It’ll be good as new,” Asheyla said softly.

Red swallowed. “Thank you.”

A gentle nod. “The boots aren’t quite done,” Asheyla called over her shoulder as she crossed to the counter, where a stack of clothes sat tied with twine.

“Fife can pick them up,” Eammon said.

Asheyla chuckled. “Tell him I’ll find a bottle of wine Valdrek hasn’t watered down. He’s—”

A muffled roar cut her off, freezing the three of them in place. Caught between horror and madness and pain, the roar came again, this time with the sound of something scraping across stone. It reverberated from beneath their feet, somewhere under the floorboards. Red didn’t realize she’d grabbed Eammon’s arm until he made a small noise of protest when her grip tightened.

One more long scraping noise, one more roar. This one faded slowly, becoming almost a whimper at the end.

Eammon looked at Red like he thought she’d move away once silence fell. When she didn’t, he put his hand over hers on his arm, large and rough with scars. “How bad is he?” Softly, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

“He lasted two weeks in the tavern.” Asheyla used the same near-whisper as Eammon, slipping the clothes on the table into a rough-spun canvas bag with a drawstring top. “Bucked at the basement beams over and over until he finally snapped one. He’s been here ever since, but . . .” She trailed off, blinking to keep the shine in her eyes from spilling over.

Bormain. They were talking about Bormain, shadow-infected and weeping the last time she saw him. Something worse now.

Red swallowed past a dry throat. Part of her still felt like it was her fault. She’d healed only the breach, not the man. She’d left the job half done.

You begin and begin, yet never see it finished. The Wilderwood had screamed it at her, that night the corridor collapsed. It was right.

Eammon sighed, taking his hand from Red’s to rub at