The Wolf & The Fox

Chapter Four

The wolf loathed the castle. He hated the stone walls that kept out the sunlight, blocked the crisp scent of dew on the grass, that silenced the thunder of the river as it carved its way through the valley. His wooden home did little to keep out the elements, and he loved it for that. It didn't have woven rugs or golden trinkets or tapestries - pretty purposeless things. He didn't belong in a place like this, so far from the snow, from the forest, from the watchful eyes of the mountain beasts. The world of his mother under his feet. The land of his father in his sights.

But he had orders to follow.

The old man continued to talk, but he wasn't listening. He was sitting in the great armchair before the fire. His hands were occupied with the fruit that grew plentiful in these parts. There was a small tool next to the bowl he'd learnt was to peel away the soft skin, revealing the plump flesh within, the colour of the setting sun. He ignored the tool, another meaningless trinket, and sank his teeth into another. In Nordland, the land was too bitter, too frozen to grow such sweet things. As the nectar clung to his lips, he thought of the princess, as he did often. More often than he'd ever thought of a woman before. He imagined her skin as soft as these fruits. Her taste, sweeter. And with a hunter's clarity, he knew he needed to find out just how soft, how sweet.

Helia. Her name curled around his tongue.

Sighing, he forced himself to look up at the old man. Tomaz, Agna had called him. The twin's childhood tutor, who seemed as dear to them as their own flesh and blood. When he'd requested time with the wolf, it had intrigued him. And he was bored with waiting for word from his brother that he could move forward with the next part of the plan. He did not enjoy waiting. He was not a patient man.

Tomaz's voice was faint as he continued to talk. But anger was creeping into his gaze. This man didn't like being ignored. He considered it a discourtesy. Of course, this old man, who thought he knew so much, didn't know everything. He didn't know that the wolf had learnt what he needed to know from his other senses. Few knew, though some guessed, that his demon blood gave him more than strength and speed and ferocity.

It heightened his senses, too.

So he knew that this man was nervous, which was not a surprise. Fear was a scent his berserker's nose smelt more often than most. But the old man wasn't afraid because he was talking to the great wolf. He was afraid because he was lying to him. And the wolf was curious to know why.

"You are not from here", the wolf said, interrupting him.

"I was born in the east, on the Sidomma isles... until they were taken." He added bitterly. "After that, I travelled. And I wandered across land, sailed across the ocean. I settled here to aid the Queen's children with their education."

The wolf's lip quirked.

"The Queen's children? You consider them foremost the children of a dead queen rather than a living king?"