Chapter 22
ELLIE
Iwoke to the sound of women's voices, low and rhythmic, and for one disorienting heartbeat I thought I was back in the tent with Megan, that the last few weeks had been nothing but a strange delusion brought on by the act of time travel.
I opened my eyes to Kessa's hearth, to the scent of woodsmoke and sweet fragrant herbs that I couldn't name, and reality settled over me like a stone.
Today was the day.
My stomach twisted. I gripped the thick fur beneath me, grounding myself in the texture, the warmth still clinging to the pelt from my body heat. The fire had burned low overnight. Dawn light filtered through the entrance, pale and cold, and I could see my breath misting in the air.
Today I bind myself to Daska. Today I become someone’s mate. Today everything changes.
I sat up slowly, my muscles protesting. I hadn't slept well, probably not more than a handful of hours strung together, my mind circling the same fears over and over.
Had Nathan been right and this was only for protection of the pack?
What if Daska didn't really want me? What if in a week’s time he realized he'd made a terrible mistake?
I shoved the thought down hard. Nathan didn't get to live in my head anymore. Not today.
Kessa appeared in the entrance, her broad face creased with warmth and something that looked almost like excitement. She carried a bundle wrapped in soft leather, and behind her came Sira and two other women I recognized from the communal meals.
"You’re awake," Kessa said, her voice warm. "Good. We have much to do, and the sun moves fast."
“We do? What do I need to do?”
“First you eat,” Sira said. She set down a wooden platter on the furs next to me and my mouth watered at the sight of the honey and berry cakes Sira was known for.
Daunted as I was by the fierce old lady, my love for her cakes had emboldened me and several days ago I had begged Sira to teach me how to make them.
They would be rare, grain was not grown and harvested yet, it had to be gathered from wild growing grasses.
Agriculture wouldn’t be a thing for another twelve thousand years.
Still, I had watched Sira carefully, and when she gave me the chance to recreate her recipe, I had taken the utmost care, and had even got a nod and a brief smile from the old wolf.
Now, I looked up at her with a genuine smile.
“Thank you, Sira.”
As I nibbled on a cake and sipped at a cup of hot peppermint tea that Cera handed me, Kessa set the bundle down beside me with care. I watched as she unwrapped the leather with hands that were steady and sure and then my mouth fell open. Inside was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
Pale cream leather, butter-soft and finely stitched with sinew, the seams so neat they looked almost invisible in the firelight.
The tunic was sleeveless, cut to fit close at the shoulders and fall loose to mid-thigh, the hem decorated with tiny bone beads and coloured stones—turquoise, ochre, obsidian—that caught the light and shimmered.
The leggings matched, fitted but flexible, with more beads trailing down the outer seams. There were soft fur-lined boots, a cloak lined with thick winter pelts, and a belt worked with intricate knotwork that must have taken hours to complete.
I stared. My throat closed up.
"Kessa," I managed. "This is... very beautiful. Too much."
"Not too much." Kessa's tone was firm. She touched the beads gently, then looked at me with something fierce in her eyes.
"Daska gives his best blade. Three snow leopard furs.
The white stones from—" She used a word I didn't know, something that sounded like a place name.
"He trades all. He wants you to feel... as he sees you. "
Sira stepped forward, her lined face solemn. "He wants pack to see. You are honoured. Not... not taken like—" She made a dismissive gesture that clearly meant something shameful.
"He traded so much for this?" I whispered, the words coming out rough.
Kessa nodded firmly. "His knife. The one from Rivik’s father." She pressed a hand to her heart. "From here."
He'd given up his best possessions. His adoptive father's hunting knife. Furs he'd been saving for winter. Things that mattered.
For me.
My vision blurred. I blinked hard, but the tears came anyway, hot and sudden, spilling over before I could stop them.
He wanted me to look honoured. Not taken.
Kessa made a soft sound and pulled me into her arms, her body warm and solid, and I buried my face against her shoulder and tried not to sob. The other women murmured around us, their voices soothing, and I felt hands smoothing my hair, my back, grounding me in their care.
"You cry for joy?" one of the younger women asked hesitantly. "Or fear?"
"Both," I managed against Kessa's shoulder, my voice muffled. "I don't... I don't know how I deserve this."
"You survive," Sira said simply. "You learn our words. You try. That is enough."
When I finally pulled back, sniffling and embarrassed, Kessa cupped my face in her broad hands and spoke low and firm. "You are Daska’s now, Ellie. Whatever old elders say, we don't let our daughters walk into new hearth without blessing." Her thumb brushed away a tear. "You understand?"
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
"Good. Now we make you ready."
They dressed me with care, peeling away my borrowed furs and doeskin tunic, washing me with warm water scented with sweet and spicy herbs. The cold air bit at my skin, but the women worked quickly, efficiently, talking in low voices as they moved.
"Your skin is pale like snow," the younger woman commented, not unkindly. "Will you burn in summer?"
"Yes," I said, managing a weak smile. "Very much."
"We make you salve," Kessa promised. "From—" Another word I didn't know. She mimed rubbing something on her arms.
When they slipped the cream leather over my head it fit like it had been fitted for my body. The leggings hugged my legs perfectly, the boots soft and warm, and when Kessa fastened the belt at my waist and stepped back to look at me, her eyes went bright and wet.
"Beautiful," she breathed. "Like spirit-walker from old stories."
Sira nodded, her weathered face soft. "Daska will forget to breathe."
The other women laughed, warm and knowing, and my face went hot.
Then Sira gestured for me to sit, and said quietly, "Now we do your hair. This part is... sacred. You understand this word?"
"Yes," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Sacred. Like... spirit-touched."
"Yes." Sira's expression was grave. "We mark your change. Old life to new. You will carry both in your braids."
They worked in focused silence, their hands gentle as they combed through my hair with a carved bone tool, smoothing out the tangles. One of the younger women brought a small clay pot filled with oil mixed with herbs and they worked it through my hair until it gleamed. Then Sira began to braid.
Her fingers moved with practiced ease, weaving my hair into intricate patterns I couldn't see but could feel, tight and secure at my scalp, looser as the braids fell down my back.
She wove in small beads as she worked, bone and stone that clicked softly together, and wrapped the ends with thin strips of leather dyed deep red.
"Why red?" I asked quietly.
"Blood," Kessa said simply. "Life. Bond. The cord that cannot break."
Sira leaned close and touched the beads gently, then touched her own hair, bound in similar fashion. "Each bead tells story. This one…" She tapped a pale bone bead near my temple. "This is for your old life. The people you left. We honour them."
My throat tightened.
"This one…" A dark stone bead, shining like obsidian. "This is for your courage. You walk through...” She used a word that meant something like danger. "You come to us. That takes strength."
"And these…" Kessa touched the turquoise beads woven near the base of my skull. "These are for water. For life that flows. For children, maybe, if spirits bless you."
I closed my eyes and let them work, my throat tight, my chest aching with something I couldn't name.
“Kessa…” I asked after a little while. “What is… spirit-walker.”
“Old story,” Kessa answered. “The world around us is ancient, but when it was young, it was… damaged by fire and earth. The world shook and the people cried in fear. The Great Mother cried for her children, for their fear and pain, so she lay with her lover and bore another child. The Spirit Walker. The Sacred Daughter who came and walked the earth with her guardian spirits until it lay quiet and healed, and the Great Mother could watch her children live in peace and strength.”
“What a beautiful story,” I murmured. “We do not have a Great Mother where I come from. We have… a Great Father.”
Sira snorted. “A father may spark life, but he does not create it, grow it, nurture it. He protects, guides, teaches, provides as does the mother.”
“Where is your mother, Ellie?” asked Cera softly. I opened my eyes and looked over. She was smiling, but her eyes were sad and I wondered if her mother had been killed when Broken Ridge attacked, or whether she had been taken, just as I was supposed to be.
“My mother… she lives no more,” I said, ignoring the pricking of tears in my eyes.
"In old times," Sira said softly as she worked, "women who joined from other packs, they came with nothing.
No family. No protection. So we became their mothers.
Their sisters." Her fingers moved steadily, never faltering.
"You have no mother here, Ellie. Or you Cera. So we are your mothers. All of us."
This time there was no holding back and my tears fell silent and hot down my cheeks. Kessa tutted and dabbed at my face with a soft cloth.
When Sira finally sat back, one of the other women brought forward a small dish of red ochre paste. Sira dipped her fingers into it and drew a single line across my brow, then down the bridge of my nose.