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

his temple. “Why has Valdrek not taken care of it?” It would’ve sounded callous were his voice not so pained. “If he still hasn’t improved, Ash, it will only—”

“He’s Valdrek’s son-in-law.” Asheyla’s voice was stern. “He’s family. Valdrek won’t . . . won’t take care of it unless there’s absolutely no chance of recovery. Elia would never forgive him.” The woman kept her eyes to her hands, busily tying packages in string, but all her awareness was on the Wolf, and her words came measured. “You’ve healed the shadow-infected before. Long ago.” Her eyes flicked up. “You’ve lived long, Wolf, but our stories live longer still.”

The line of Eammon’s jaw tightened. “If I could do it, I would,” he said softly. “But I can’t. Not anymore.”

Asheyla’s eyes darted from Eammon to Red, lips a thin line, but she stayed silent.

Eammon turned to the door. “We should go. Fife gave me an extensive list.” He walked past the threshold into the sunlight.

Asheyla’s eyes followed him, still puzzled, but once she turned her face to Red she’d arranged it in a tired smile. She held out the canvas bag filled with new clothes. “Come back if something doesn’t fit.”

Red slung the bag over her shoulder. It was heavier than it looked. She shifted from foot to foot, a question on her tongue she couldn’t quite shape.

“Before,” she began haltingly, “when Eammon . . . healed people. How did he do it?”

“I wasn’t born,” the older woman hedged, picking at a roll of twine. “I heard the tale from my mother. According to her, he could do it with a touch.” A sigh, a slight shake of her head. “But the Wilderwood wasn’t quite so weak then.”

Red thought of sentinels, of black rot and hands on trunks, sending light to conquer shadow. She nodded, gave Asheyla a smile, and followed the Wolf.

Outside, the sunlight made her blink, eyes still unused to brightness. Eammon leaned against a post on the porch, arms crossed, but when she emerged he pushed off. “Fife said we need—”

“We have to help Bormain.”

He stopped, a soundless sigh raising his shoulders and letting them fall.

Red walked down the short steps of Asheyla’s shop, stopping on the one below him. The stair gave him even more height on her, but she kept her spine straight. “I can help you heal him,” she said firmly. “Like I did with the sentinel. It’s the same concept, right?”

“It’s far more complicated than that, Redarys.” Eammon’s eyes were stern. “Chasing the shadow-rot out of a person is dangerous. It takes more power than I have anymore—”

“But you aren’t doing it alone.” Red shook her head. “You don’t have to do everything alone, Eammon.”

His mouth was a tight line, hair shadowing his eyes. There was something waiting in the space between them, something vast and terrifying, but it narrowed down to this: the itch in her fingers to smooth along his jaw. The certainty that her palm would never feel right again unless it swept his hair off his forehead.

Red dropped her eyes; his were suddenly too much for her. “Let me help you, and we can help Bormain. We can at least speak with Valdrek about it.”

He searched her face, lips slightly parted, as if looking for something he was both eager and terrified to find. Then he turned sharply, headed for the other side of the square. “Have it your way, Lady Wolf.”

A wooden building stood directly across from the stone tree. Music and raucous laughter could be heard even before they mounted the stairs, and when the doors opened, they wafted scents of sweat and ale.

“Valdrek is usually here.” Eammon shot her a warning look. “Stay close.”

A bar stood across from the door, packed with people drinking and laughing and playing card games. The floor near the band was clear of tables and chairs, and dancers swirled in time to the music, some more gracefully than others. Eammon’s broad figure cut through the crowd.

The back of the tavern was somewhat calmer, occupied by those more intent on drinks than dancing. Valdrek sat with his back to them, cards in his hand and a sizable pile of antiquated coins by his side. Red’s eyes widened. She hadn’t seen currency like that anywhere but a history book— it still featured the likeness of the last Krahl of Elkyrath, back before the country broke into city-states.

“Wolf,” Valdrek said, selecting a card. Then, as if sensing her presence, he turned, raised a brow. “Wolves.”

She didn’t recognize any of the other men at the table, faces ranging from interested to wary. Eammon jerked his head toward the corner, turning without looking to see if Valdrek would follow. Red hovered between them, lost in unfamiliar politics.

The older man heaved a sigh, setting down his cards. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve a Wolf that needs attending to.”

Eammon sat down in the back corner, running a tired hand over his face. Red moved to follow, Valdrek behind her.

“It appears you’ve worn him out, Lady.” It could’ve been lascivious, but Valdrek sounded only curious. He gave her an assessing look as he brushed past, sinking into the chair across from Eammon. Brow furrowed, Red settled between them.

Valdrek had brought his tankard with him; he took a long swallow before setting it on the table. “Drinks, anyone?” He looked archly at Eammon. “Might improve your temper.”

“Sorry to pull you away from your cards.” Eammon sat forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “I wasn’t sure if your fellow players were aware of the . . . the situation.”

He didn’t have to clarify what situation. Immediately the bluster drained out of Valdrek, sinking his shoulders. “We’ve kept it fairly quiet.” He shrugged, but the movement was pained. “The basement needed repairs after he got . . . agitated, but we passed the damage off as a wrestling match that got out of hand. Ash’s shop is stone-built and should last longer.” His mouth thinned, a spark of determination in his eye. “Until he gets better.”

Eammon