For the Wolf Hannah Whitten (desktop ebook reader .TXT) 📖

The coffee was strong, and bitter enough to make Red pull a face. “Could the Wilderwood’s magic manage to conjure up some cream?”

“Afraid not. I’ll add it to the supply list.” Eammon took a long drink of his own. “For all its force, the Wilderwood’s power is rather limited. It can affect growing things, or anything else connected to the forest, but that’s about it.”

“It can heal wounds, too.”

“Only if the wounded person is connected to the Wilderwood.”

She tightened her grip on her cup to keep from touching her face, the place along her cheekbone where the thorn had scored her a week ago. “You didn’t really heal it, though,” she said. “You just . . . took it. It showed up on you.”

“Pain has to go somewhere.” The chair legs creaked as Eammon leaned back. “It’s a balance. The vine that lights the Keep will hold the flames without burning, but it won’t grow. Neither will the branches the firewood was cut from. Wounds can’t just go away— they’re transferred.”

They didn’t look at each other, but the awareness was solid as a stare. Red took another sip of her bitter coffee.

“Your power must work similarly to mine,” Eammon said to the ceiling. “Since they’re the same thing. Mostly.”

Her brow furrowed. “But when I can’t keep it contained, I don’t . . . like how you . . .” She trailed off, not sure how to phrase it delicately.

“You don’t change like I do.” Quiet but matter-of-fact.

“No,” she murmured. “I don’t.”

A visible swallow down the column of his throat. “My ties to the Wilderwood are stronger than yours,” Eammon said. “And when I use its power, it . . . takes part of me away. The changes fade, usually, but it’s still unpleasant. And some things linger.” He shrugged, stilted. “That’s why I use blood, sometimes. It works the same way the magic does, without opening me up to quite as much alteration.”

The last word came out bitter. Still looking at the ceiling, Eammon rubbed at the spot above his wristbone where she’d seen bark edge through his skin.

Red nodded, sliding her gaze from his silhouette to the wavering reflection in her coffee mug. “So I won’t change, because my magic isn’t as strong as yours.”

“Exactly. Not as strong, and more chaotic.”

“To put it mildly.”

“We should focus on control, then. Channeling only a small amount at a time, directed to a specific task.”

Nerves sparked, sending her floundering for some distraction to stall the inevitable. Red sank into the chair across from him, mug clenched tightly between her palms. “Why does the magic affect growing things?”

“When Ciaran and Gaya made their bargain, the sentinels rooted in them. Became part of them.” The belabored chair legs squeaked as Eammon leaned back, reciting history to the paper sun. Willing to let her put this off, if having every question answered would make her more comfortable. “So the Wolf and the Second Daughter can control the things of the earth, the things with roots. They’re under the sentinels’ influence, and thus under ours.”

Her mind riffled through all the times she’d had to steel herself against her seed of magic, miles and miles from the Wilderwood. “For having such a limited purview, the sentinels’ influence seems to stretch rather far.”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s been centuries since I could leave this damn forest.” The four chair legs clattered to the ground. “It traps Wardens better than it does shadow-creatures.”

“Wardens?”

“The words for ‘Warden’ and ‘Wolf’ are remarkably similar in most of the continent’s ancient languages.”

“There has to be more to it than that.”

“Ciaran was a huntsman.” Eammon stood and strode across the room to one of the vine-carved windows. A small ceramic planter sat there, green ivy curling over the edge. He picked it up and brought it to the table, bracing his hands on either side. “Before he ran off with Gaya, his proudest achievement was slaying a giant, monstrous wolf that prowled at the edges of his village— a child of one of the things trapped in the Shadowlands, before they all died off. They called him the Wolf long before he came here, and the word for ‘Warden’ wasn’t different enough for them to stop.” He flashed her a sharp smile and slid the ivy in her direction. “To be honest, I prefer Wolf.”

“Maybe people wouldn’t think you a monster if you were called the Warden instead.”

“Maybe I don’t mind them thinking I’m a monster.”

It was meant to sound fierce, and on the surface it did. But there was something about the depth of belief in it that plucked a chord in her chest. Red lightly twisted one of the ivy tendrils around her finger.

Eammon sat properly in his chair this time, no precarious tipping backward. “We’ll keep it simple.” He gestured to the ivy. “You’re going to make that grow.”

Red slid her half-drunk mug to the side, hoping he couldn’t see the tremor in her hands as she settled them on either side of the pot. “How exactly do I do this without calamity, then? We made the magic easier to manage, but I’m still not exactly confident.”

The mention of their marriage, oblique as it was, made their eyes dart away from each other.

“Focus your intention,” Eammon said after a laden moment. “Once you have it clearly in your mind, open up to the forest’s power. It’s . . . intuitive.” He looked up from his scarred knuckles to her face. “It’s part of you.”

Part of you. She thought of the changes magic wrought in him, the bark and the green eyes, the height and layered voice. A scale tipping back and forth, man to forest, bone to branch.

The bloom of magic in her middle stretched upward. Something she could wield, if she was brave enough. If she could swallow down the memories of the times before—

Red closed her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head, like those thoughts were something she could