The Silver Wolf (24 page)

“You summoned me,” the voice answered. “What care I what you see?” The forked tongue flickered at the lipless teeth of the skull. Behind the empty eyes of the bone mask the long length of a serpent moved beyond the black stare, in the hollow of the cranium. “Who are you to come here clothed in only your flesh, naked as the goddess herself and wearing her necklace.”

“I was born of darkness,” Regeane said. “My father’s eyes closed before mine opened. I am not of this world or the other, and I have the right to be what I am.”

The death-head woman vanished into a twisted, coiling blackness, and the serpent reared before Regeane, the dark, triangular head a shadow between her and the stars shining through the broken roof.

But the woman who was not Regeane and not the wolf stood her ground. As she watched open-eyed, unblinking, the serpent faded into wispy shadow till only the stars remained. Regeane faced a twisted, wrinkled crone.

The burst of light was fire in her eyes. The temple was thrown open before her, breathtakingly beautiful as it had been on the day of its dedication. Ablaze with torchlight, lit by the
twinkling fires of a thousand lamps festooned with green garlands. The festive worshippers stood arrayed in white, crowned with gilded laurel, and carried a rainbow of spring flowers in their arms.

They were still as if interrupted in their revels by this trespasser from beyond the world, gazing at Regeane with the stony distant stare of the dead.

Towering over them stood the statue of the god clothed as Regeane, in primal nakedness, and alight with the beauty of youth. He smiled down at the throng who had once and now forever adored him.

Regeane stepped around the fire and toward the doorway.

“The supplicant will be heard,” the crone whispered, “but come no further for beyond this threshold is the land of the dead.”

Oh, there was beauty there
, Regeane thought as she met the distant eyes of the throng. For here chaos lurks, waiting, and beauty can be a mask for horror and horror a gateway into the unimaginable.

Regeane turned again to the old woman standing in the doorway. But was she old? Even to the creature of power Regeane had become, the apparition seemed to shift and change.

Youth and age flickered like shadows over her features. Smooth skin collapsed into wrinkles. A winsome smile turned into a gap-toothed, evil grin. Lustrous hair thinned to a few lank strands on a scabrous, balding head.

And then it all began again and again and again endlessly.

“I can’t seem to see you,” Regeane said.

“No,” the voice answered. “No one ever has. Speak. What do you desire? For you have not much time. You said you came as a supplicant. I will hear you. Speak.”

“I seek a man’s life,” Regeane said. “I seek to remold his flesh, to heal him.”

All those crowded into the temple began to laugh.
The weeping of the dead is very terrible
, Regeane thought, for she had fled from it often.
It wrings the heart, but their laughter is worse, hideous beyond belief because there is nothing left of humanity in it. Only a cold, ringing jeer
.

Regeane almost fled from it, but the pride and power she felt wouldn’t let her.

The figure standing in the doorway didn’t laugh. Her face, except for the slow changes of bud, blossom, and decay, remained the same and, as Regeane watched, Regeane realized each face the twisted hag wore was a different one, yet each the same in their destruction by time. They faded into each other in unbroken sequence as perhaps they had since the very beginning of the world. And so they might until it ended. The being didn’t laugh, she nodded.

“What you wish to do is very simple,” the voice said. “The fire behind you still burns though its flame is no longer an earthly one. Bring him here, stretch him on the firepit, and then pass this threshold. Perhaps you will emerge, perhaps not, but what you wish will be accomplished.”

Cross the threshold
, Regeane thought.
Journey into the land of the dead
. With a shudder, the triumphant willpower that held her where she was collapsed and she began to run.

She didn’t remember afterward when she ceased running on two feet and began to run on four, but somewhere in her precipitous flight she did, and the wolf found herself down from the rock, skimming over the Campagna, taking heaving breaths of the clean wind as she ran.

The night was growing older. The wolf could tell by the smell of the wind and the slow wheeling changes in the stars. Dew was beginning to settle in the grass over which she flew like a streak of silver light.

She ran toward Antonius.

Death. She had known death was not the end of everything, but she had not grasped the true significance of her knowledge.

The terror of endless possibility.

That was where she sinned against human thinking the way the dead did.

One of the most important things men ask of life, of the world is predictability. The sun rises. The sun sets. Serfs bow to their lords, the lords to kings and emperors.

The Romans had been oppressors, condemning whole populations to abject slavery. But their orderly rule had at least lent
predictably to life. The peoples living under their heel and yoke had known what to expect.

But in this clash of nations where Lombard struggled with the pope, where Frank and Saxon merged with the ancient Gauls and all battled for supremacy and power, who knew what to expect?

She was herself to them, to mankind, a creature of restless substance … One with insubstantial night and the universe, an impossibility. Unknown, and therefore, uncontrollable and that was why men wanted to destroy her. Would destroy her if they caught her.

A woman they could understand, and a wolf, but the two as one? Never.

She stopped running near the glassworks. She could smell Antonius, smell his fear and the dreadful workings of the disease that slowly destroyed his flesh.

The wolf stopped, feeling the dew damping down her fur. Her flanks heaved from her long run through the night, and she was thirsty.

She drank from the rivulet that once supplied the glass-makers, lapping the crystal water with her tongue. The wolf went through the rite, its sensation unknown to man, of straightening her fur, shaking herself, forcing it to rise and fall back in a comfortable pattern.

Death. Yes, they would kill her if they caught her. She shivered, thinking of the torments visited on those convicted of black sorcery—drowning, burning.

But however agonizing the pains, death would end them and death was part of the predictable universe.

Beyond … who knows?

Perhaps the greatest terror the dead faced was that they could not die. That they were set adrift on the uncharted ocean beyond life. To drift forever across the sea of eternity.

SHE FOUND ANTONIUS LYING WRAPPED IN HIS thick mantle. For a few seconds, she crouched against him, shivering.

“Lupa,” he sighed when he felt her body pressed so tightly to his side. “So you’ve returned. I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry. I was thinking this little oven might be my tomb. At first the thought terrified me, but after a time it became a more comfortable one.

“I could lie here, my flesh melting into the earth, my bones dissolving, watching the play of swallows above me by day,” he mused. “There are swallows here, you know. They build their nests in the lip of the chimney and they must raise generation after generation of their young here.”

Yes
, she and the wolf thought,
and if Basil’s men were not blind human fools, they would have noticed the presence of those swallows and known there must be ruins about. And they would have had you posthaste
.

“And the stars. Locked in a city as I was, you forget the stars, how beautiful they are when the Milky Way builds a bridge across the night sky. How can any artist truly hope to catch their glory?

“Perhaps if I lie here moldering for a few centuries I might learn something about them.” Antonius chuckled softly as if amused by his own thoughts, by the idea of his imminent death and dissolution.

The wolf was not amused. To her it was simply defeatism. She leaped to her feet, snarling.

Antonius’ beautiful eyes stared up at her from the shadow of
his cowled robe. “Why, Lupa, what was that? A command or a warning?”

Both
, Regeane thought, trotting toward his feet. She snapped at them, her teeth closing in the air with an ominous click.

Antonius sat up. He studied the wolf in the dim starlight. “Lupa,” he said softly, “can’t you see there’s no way out for me? I’m as well off here as I would be anywhere else. Basil can’t find me. He can’t use me against my brother.

“There’s water here. I can creep out and drink when I want to. I’m seldom hungry anymore. In a few days I’ll cease to feel what few complaints my belly makes. And, after a few more days, a little pain won’t make any difference.”

More wolf than woman now, Regeane was infuriated. She was willing to dare the gates of eternity for him, and here he was talking as calmly about dying as he would about dropping into the nearest wineshop.

She crouched, sinking back on her haunches, and launched herself at him with a roar of fury that echoed back from the walls of the oven like a thunderclap. She dropped to the ground, just short of crashing into his chest.

Antonius struggled to his feet. The wolf stepped back, mollified.

Antonius studied her for a moment. “Lupa?” he asked anxiously. The wolf trotted to the little tunnel that was the entrance to the oven. “I can see I’m not allowed to die in peace.”

Strangely he seemed to greet that prospect with the same equanimity and amusement he had the thought of resting in this little sanctuary forever. He had, as always, drawn the dark mantle over his mutilated lips and nose, but he smiled. The wolf felt the smile—a peaceful radiance—rather than saw it.

“Very well. I abandon myself to you. Lead me where you will.”

REGEANE FOUND THE SHEPHERD A FEW HOURS later. She had been afraid of trouble from his dogs, but found when she faced the scruffy mongrels her fears had been completely unfounded.

They had encountered wolves before, but never wolves like this. The silver wolf, unlike the slinking grays of the Campagna,
was a creature of dazzling power. She was a dense mass of muscle and bone clothed in the shimmer of moonlight. She was fully twice as big as any they had ever seen before.

The dogs stopped, snarls dying in their throats, their ears laid back, tails tucked firmly between their legs. They fled to crouch protectively near the white mass of sheep.

The sheep were tightly bunched against both danger and the cold night. And the silver wolf understood if she tried to attack them, the dogs, driven to desperation by a threat to their charges, would fight back. Otherwise they would do nothing. Not even warn the young shepherd the silver wolf saw beyond the massed flock. He was sleeping, curled on his side in front of a rude hut near a small fire on the hilltop.

The wolf eyed the dogs contemptuously. One of them bared its teeth at her in a silent, terror-filled snarl.

The silver wolf was shocked by a sudden awareness of her own power. She could hear the confident, steady hammer of her heart. Feel ropey muscle in chest and haunches tighten, ready to put into play the steel sinews that drove her legs.

She was not
a
wolf, but
the
wolf. A creature of matchless strength, in her prime. She knew, and the dogs knew, she could slaughter them and then tear out the throats of as many of the sheep as she cared to. The shepherd himself could easily be her first prey, a helpless victim of her newfound strength. And why not?

His hut, the clothing he wore, whatever food he had would serve to feed and protect Antonius. If the food wasn’t enough, she could kill a few of the sheep.

The silver wolf loped toward the sleeping form on the hilltop. The shepherd was no more than a boy, a stripling who looked to be at most in his early teens. In repose, his face showed the placid innocence of all sleepers. The winsome and frightening vulnerability of mankind at rest. A timeless helplessness before mother night and the eternal stars.

The wolf, merciless aristocrat of killers, wasn’t disposed to question expedience. The boy would be dead before he completely awakened. Regeane stopped the wolf in her tracks. The silver one shook her head in annoyance. The woman knew what the boy was, likely the youngest son of one of the small farmers
whose tiny holdings clustered near one of the vast estates of the wealthy.

They lived in a poverty so absolute, it sickened Regeane. She wondered how anyone could lead a life so devoid of all pleasure, happiness, or even hope. Many had given up even trying to rear their children, selling those who did not die in infancy as slaves to the powerful as soon as they were old enough to work. Young as he was, probably even his master didn’t value him much. If the boy survived the unremitting toil, the hazards of the Campagna, and was able to forage and augment his meager slave rations with enough food to grow to adulthood, he might be better treated and fed.

Right now, his survival was as precarious as the life of a runt in a litter of puppies or kittens. He might be able to struggle hard enough to win sufficient nourishment from the great world mother. Then again, he might not. If he didn’t, he would go down silently, tracelessly into the dust with the world’s discards. But whatever happened, Regeane would not let the wolf be the instrument of his doom.

The silver wolf stopped at the edge of the fire and lowered her head. Wood was scarce on the Campagna and the shepherd’s tiny fire showed his poverty. A ring of small branches, the cull of brush and saplings, clustered at the base of one big olive log. The log supported a solitary flame.

The sheep milled and muttered softly, disturbed by the wolf’s scent. Belatedly, one of the dogs barked sharply.

The shepherd awakened and saw the wolf through a veil of flame. He grabbed his staff and tried snatching up the last flaming branch from the fire. Half-consumed, it fell to pieces in his hand, burning his fingers. He tried to get to his feet, slipped, and succeeded in getting as far as his knees.