The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 22: The Princess's Hunt, Part 6

 The abandoned watchtower was visible long before they passed the forest's edge. Ammas had left a lantern burning in the upper story. It shone to them like a lighthouse on the shores of the Azure Sea, calling lost sailors home at last. Away from the concealing canopy of the forest, Carala began to grow agitated, sinking to all fours, pacing around Ammas in a wide-ranging circle, sniffing the air, pawing at the earth, something anxious in the glow of her eyes and the set of her ears when she looked up to him. They had not heard the howls for a long while now, and even before Carala's new unease had begun to manifest Ammas wondered if the Swiftfoot wolves had shifted from summoning their would-be companion to stalking her . . . and him.

Only when he was inside the stony confines of the watchtower, slamming the door closed and barring it, did Ammas realize he was terrified. Not of being attacked by the wolves -- he could defend himself ably enough even without the spirit salve -- but that Carala would join them. Myrdin had said three wolves attacked him and his brethren. That was difficult but not insurmountable; he had tools at his disposal beyond a skymetal blade. But if the she-wolf at his side cast her lot with his attackers, the shock alone might be enough to undo him. Slumping against the door, he looked to her now.

Carala-the-wolf was crouched by the cold hearth, gazing into its ashes. Ammas had the distinct impression she did not want to look at him, not while she was in the wolf shape and in a place where he could see her so clearly. But like Denisius, he was struck by her beauty and physical grace, and whatever her hunting habits might have become, this was no monster he saw, hiding her face from him and staring disconsolately into a dead fire.

Gently Ammas knelt beside her. From his pack he drew out the cloak he had intended for her to wear if she had resumed her human shape outside the tower, and drew it over her shoulders. Silently she sank her muzzle onto his shoulder, pressing to him as his arm curled about her upper back. The woodland perfume, almost wholly cleansed of the scent of deer blood, seemed to pulse in his nostrils in time with her rapid heartbeat. 

"The night is almost at an end," he murmured, his hand going from her shoulder to the mane that crested her head, lightly stroking one sharp ear, "and you are still Carala Deyn."

A low, aching sound escaped her throat, and she curled to him more tightly.

The moon had set. Perhaps that was the source of her agitation. Ammas felt a sensation few cursewrights of the latter years had ever felt, and perhaps none of his generation: a wolfish body pressed against his, trembling and quivering, muscles undulating in unnatural rhythms as they shrank and withered from lupine to human, growls becoming gasps as vocal cords capable of speech reasserted themselves, and strangest of all the sight of a thick coat of fur withdrawing into pale skin. He could hear it, like the sound of long grass rustling in a high wind. The cloak, only a trifle too large for Carala in her wolf shape, now seemed to consume her entirely, giving her a level of modesty almost comical when compared to the easy nakedness she had evinced only a few minutes before.

"You came through still yourself," Ammas said to her, looking down, watching the amber hue of her irises fading to their usual hazel. Relief flooded him as he realized the truth of what were otherwise mere soothing words, but a wakeful fear danced on the periphery of his senses. The longer the Swiftfoot howls were silent, the more agitated he became. "How much do you remember, Carala?"

"Everything," she hissed, and seized the back of his head. She pressed her lips to his, inhaling sharply, her breath still hot with the deer meat she had devoured, an underlying sweetness leavening that redolent taste. 

Maybe it was the fierceness of it, or perhaps it was simply that what had passed between them in the woods made this entirely expected, but in Ammas's reaction there was no befuddled hesitancy as there had been with Lena. With no less eagerness than Carala's own he met the kiss, one hand going to her midnight hair, the other to the small of her back, deliciously aware of the fact there was nothing between his hands and her skin but the cloak. Even before he had lost his carnal hungers such passion was almost alien to him; he remembered his fellows from Sailor's Crown dragging him to one of the brothels on Losris Nadak after their final examinations one year, only to find himself discussing the island's history with one of the brothel girls instead of bedding her. He wondered if he was enchanted by her scent, or if it was simply that he had wanted this far longer than he would ever admit to himself.

Carala ended it first, pressing her forehead to his cheek, her fingers clutching his robes. "I am sorry, Ammas," she whispered, her breath coming in gasps, her cheeks flushed and sheened with sweat. "I do not know what -- what came over me -- "

Slowly, and with no small amount of reluctance, Ammas let go of her, lightly tugging her cloak so she was completely covered. "The wolf is still on you, Carala," he said, not meeting her eyes, knowing it was not true. He knew what she wanted, and what he wanted, and he knew exactly what kind of man he was if he went forward with this or encouraged it without telling her what Casimir had begged him to tell her. She had stopped, and he knew she was as hesitant as he was, but he also knew it wouldn't take much to entice her into following that kiss to its inevitable conclusion. "You're not wholly in control of yourself."

Doubtfully she looked at him, but she made no argument. She remembered how she had felt only a few hours ago, in the shadows after sunset, drunk with a passion even Tacen had not raised in her. Traces of it lingered still, even in the fit of common sense where she had broken off the kiss, but never had the wolf felt further from her conscious mind. Why would it? It had run and hunted and killed, and now could sleep until the white moon called her forth again. Carala knew as well as he did the sort of complications that would arise from any kind of dalliance, and so she accepted his answer. But she knew it for a lie.

Ammas had turned away from her, not out of pique but simple politeness, giving her some privacy in which to dress. "You're not shocked?" she said haltingly. "By the things I did?"

He shrugged, and she could see the hint of a smile on his face. "Of course not. You hunted as any she-wolf might. But I saw so little malice in you. You -- " Ammas sighed a little, now turning from her wholly. "You're gentle. Or you are capable of gentleness. It's not what I was taught to expect."

Carala studied him, fascinated by this man who -- as he had just said of her -- was nothing at all like what she had been taught all her life to expect of a cursewright and the son of Senrich Mourthia. For a moment she was about to tell him she knew about his father, that any child of the man who could have done that didn't deserve Ammas's compassion or his care, but she closed her mouth with a snap. Before she could summon any words at all the air was rent by the sound of howls. Not miles away, but right outside the watchtower door.

Ammas's dagger leapt into his hand. The airy spirit began darting around the room, fluttering off the rafters and peeking into corners, sensing its master's fear. Instinctively Carala drew closer to him -- not wanting his protection, but steeling herself to leap at whatever wolf might try to hurt him.

"Come out, come out, come out!" shrieked a snarling female voice. Laughter bubbled up in a ragged growl. The door shivered as fierce pawed fists pounded on it, the hinges rattling. "Come out, dear princess, come out and let us have your pet magician!"

"Are you going to fight them?" Carala whispered. Her voice carried more than a trace of a growl itself. Ammas was not at all sure what to make of that.

"Not alone," he murmured, and raised the edge of his skymetal dagger to his lips, whispering to it, speaking words in a tongue Carala did not know but which made the hair on her neck stand up.

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