Chapter 17
Fern
“… Fern? Are you listening?”
She snapped out of her spiraling thoughts, looking up at Eidan. He seemed tired.
“You’re so anxious you’re making my wolf whine,” he said, almost like he didn’t understand why she might have been upset.
“He almost cut off my hand!” she shouted, immediately flinching and waiting for his correction.
But Eidan’s touch did not sting or hurt. It was a hand on her shoulder, slowly pulling her into his chest, which rumbled against her cheek.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Then he sighed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. The coming full moon and the courtship with Kyntha has him overreacting to every perceived threat towards her. Like she needs his protection.”
He chuckled, then whispered conspiratorially in her ear. “He doesn’t even see that she could eat him alive if she wanted.”
She would have laughed in return, if not for the horror and danger in the truth of it all.
“I’m trying to stay out of her way,” she admitted quietly. “But she sees me as a threat. And I don’t know why.”
The unspoken truth of the evening now a fact between them.
That while Mauricia may have set her up, it was Kyntha’s plan she’d followed.
“Fern… you truly don’t notice it, do you?”
She frowned.
“The way people watch you. Hover near you, or find excuses to linger.” His mouth tightened. “Darion notices, and Kyntha notices that he notices. That’s enough.”
“But,” Fern replied, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t want any of it.”
Speak for yourself.
Not now, Fern snapped back.
The Alpha wants us. I don’t understand why that’s a bad thing.
He. Tried. To. Cut. Off. Our. Hand.
Her wolf chuffed in annoyance.
“What can I do?” Fern asked.
Eidan ran his hand down her hair, thinking for a moment. “I’ll resume my work of convincing my brother to elevate you back to the clan. Then you just need a wolfkin to petition you as quickly as possible. Once you’re out of the castle, you should be safe.”
She sniffed, burying her face into his chest, not wanting to argue about how wrong he was.
Darion was never going to let a wolfkin petition for her. This was obvious now. He wanted to keep her as the Ashpaw forever, here and in his sights. That way, when she finally did make a big enough mistake, he could finally execute her.
But Eidan was right about one thing.
She would be safer out of the castle.
“Thank you, Eidan. I—I think I can walk back on my own, now.”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “I’ve been doing my duty for the past week. Allow me one small pleasure before I go back to the Council and talk myself raw for the rest of the night about my trip.”
“Pleasure?”
He took a step back, holding her chin in his hands.
“Aye, Fern. Believe it or not, I do enjoy your company.”
She looked into his eyes, a grayer shade of blue than his brother’s, and while she may not have had the ability to detect truth like the Lurvekh did, she liked to imagine there were no lies in his sweet words.
“And I yours.”
He smiled, breathing in deeply, then led her the rest of the way down, wishing her good night before leaving.
She waited just inside the door of the servants’ quarters, listening to him ascend the stairs.
And then she counted, slowly, until she reached one thousand, and left.
* * *
Fern had absolutely no idea where she was going or what she was doing. Only pure instinct drove her as she slipped through the castle, hiding in the deepest pockets of shadows as she ran out a small door.
The night air hit her face, carrying the scents of damp earth, pine, and woodsmoke. For one moment she simply stood there, stunned by the breadth of it all, by so much open space with nowhere to hide.
Her stomach lurched.
The castle loomed behind her, all dark stone and narrow lit windows, even larger from the outside, the highest towers vanishing into low drifting cloud.
Too high, she thought with a shiver.
She dropped her gaze and hurried forward along the garden path she knew, keeping low as she crossed the herb beds, skirts gathered in both fists. Her shoes slipped on loose gravel and once she nearly pitched backward, catching herself at the last moment with a muffled gasp.
Graceful, her wolf observed.
Big talk from someone who’s never walked before.
Her wolf’s lips curled in a snarl, and she hopped on her front feet for emphasis. I was born to run!
I’ll believe it when I see it.
She darted behind a stone fountain when voices drifted across the yard.
Two guards, their armor clinking softly as they passed, spoke in low, bored tones about dice games and morning shifts.
Fern pressed herself flat against the cold basin, scarcely daring to breathe.
One paused, and her heart stopped.
“You hear that?”
The second guard yawned. “What?”
“Thought I heard something.”
“A rat, probably.”
One of them sniffed the air, and her panic grew, which would only make her scent come out stronger.
“I think I smell something, too.”
The second one sniffed. “Smell what?”
“It smells like…”
Fern held her breath, her eyes shut tight.
“Your mother.”
The other one let out an exasperated grunt, and she heard a deep thud—a fist against padded flesh, followed by a rolling laugh.
“How do I keep falling for that every godsdamned…”
The two kept walking, and once she could no longer hear their footsteps, Fern dared to exhale. And when she finally moved again, her legs trembled so badly she nearly stumbled.
This was madness. Even if she made it beyond the walls with her loud breathing and strong scent, where would she go?
Back to her village, to Freywood?
Darion would find her before dawn.
Into the forests?
Her wolf huffed, watching with glowing, amused eyes.
You’re welcome to contribute.
Run downhill, the wolf said at once.
That was the sum total of her strategy. But at least it was a strategy.
So Fern did, skirting the edge of the training yard, ducking beneath a rack of practice spears, and squeezing through a narrow service gate someone had carelessly failed to latch.
Beyond it, the grounds widened into a maze of supply sheds, stables, and storage houses she had only glimpsed from windows.
Lantern light bobbed ahead, and she heard more voices.
She darted behind a stack of split firewood, and spied a broad wagon standing in the open yard, hitched to two large draft horses. Wolfkin moved around it, heaving sacks of grain and crates beneath the watch of a gray-bearded quartermaster barking orders.
“Mind the left wheel, idiot, unless you fancy explaining to Captain Serris why his flour’s in a ravine.”
It was now or never—if she climbed onto that cart, there would be no pretending this had been a mistake born of panic.
It would become a planned escape.
She took stock of herself, patting her skirts and realizing perhaps too late she had no food, nor cloak, nor treasures in her pocket to keep her calm—they’d been left in the Council Chamber.
But what choice did she have now?
“Supplies leave in ten!”
The workers were each too occupied with their own task to notice the dark shape crouched behind the woodpile.
At the rear of the cart, one wolfkin hauled up the final canvas tarp while another bent to secure the ropes.
Now! her wolf urged.
Fern ran.
Her slippers slapped once against packed dirt before she kicked them off entirely and kept going barefoot, the cold biting into her soles.
A shout rose somewhere to her left, but she dared not turn to see if it was meant for her.
With a desperate scramble, she caught the edge of the wagon, half-hauled, half-threw herself upward, and landed hard atop something lumpy that smelled strongly of onions.
The tarp dropped over her a heartbeat later, and she was swallowed by darkness, the effect causing a frantic part of her to ease.
She barely had time to curl into herself before rough hands yanked the canvas tight and lashed it down.
Be still, her wolf instructed.
I know!
Her pulse thundered so violently she was certain the whole cart must shake with it.
Then footsteps crunched nearby. “Everything loaded?”
“Aye.”
“Good. Move.”
The wagon lurched, and Fern bit her fist to keep from making a sound as her body rolled against crates and sacks.
And then she waited, already resigned to losing. Nothing was ever easy, ever good. She would be discovered in seconds. A voice would ring out from the yard, she’d see the glow of torches through the tarp, and the cart would stop.
She’d be discovered.
She held her breath, anticipating the hard grip on her ankle that would pull her out.
But none came.
Fern heard only the groan of wheels over stone and then packed earth, and her wolf settled smugly somewhere inside her.
See? I told you to go downhill.
* * *
Fern hadn’t wanted to fall asleep, but she couldn’t help it—she felt safe for the first time in weeks. Not just because she was escaping, but because the press of crates and sacks around her felt strangely familiar, like the narrow comfort of her bed from home.
Nest, her wolf corrected.
Bed, she shot back, yawning and letting exhaustion drag her under.
She woke later, faint light filtering through the tarp, the cart coming to a harsh stop.
Fern held her breath and stilled, and felt the slight bob of the cart as the driver hopped off.
He’s coming, he’s sniffed me out, I’m dead…
His footsteps, the rustling of clothes, the stream of water hitting the ground…
Oh, he just needed to relieve himself.
But that drew her attention to her own bladder, uncomfortably full as well. She had a feeling it was probably a bad idea to pee all over the onions.
Besides, she needed to get off before it reached its destination, anyway.
Once the cart lurched forward again, she shifted inch by inch, careful not to make so much as a creak beneath her.
She made it to the edge of the tarp and looked out.
The sun was still barely over the horizon, and the road they traveled on was bracketed by thick, deep woods.
It would be easy to disappear…
And then what? she asked her wolf. Since you seem to be full of ideas.
Water, the wolf responded quickly. There was no hint of mirth in her voice. We find water first.
Fern nodded to herself. That was actually a good plan.