The Wolf King (53 page)

Again Regeane watched the scene play itself out, and then again. And she knew she could remain here forever seeing this horror over and over again, if she chose, for all eternity. But no matter how long she watched, caught like an insect in amber in an eternal instant of unspeakable horror, she would never be able to change even one scintilla of the events unfolding before her.

But someone was screaming her name. She wanted it to stop. It was so irritating. And then she was down, struggling in someone’s arms, and he was dragging her across a room fogged black with smoke. The only light came from the bloody glow of the rafters burning above them. She fought him even while he dragged her through the broken doors into the street, clawing, kicking, and screaming, until she looked up and saw the face, one eye swollen from her fist, skin gashed by her nails, and knew him. Her love, Maeniel.

“I was part of that. I helped,” she screamed. “If it hadn’t been for me, she—those children—might still be—”

The square around them was chaos. Houses were burning, people running back and forth trying to find loved ones or dumping possessions from the windows, soldiers guzzling drink or gorging on food. But there was no longer any fighting.

“If you love me,” she whispered to Maeniel, “take me somewhere clean.”

He embraced her and brushed her hair with his lips. The air was full of smoke and no one seemed to notice or even see the two wolves cross the square or run flying down toward the gate. None except Charles, the king. He followed, his horse at a canter. They were only shadows against the wheat sprouting green in the furrows, the olive trees like smoke against the vineyards, and the pastures glowing with long, wind-tossed green grass. Then they were gone.

He shivered, thinking,
The guilt is Bernard’s. The blood guilt. They were not his kin. He is my mother’s brother. I am free of it. I am free of it.

But still he sat for a long time, hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, watching the high cloud shadows move over the fair, rich, green countryside he could now claim as his own.

ALICE BORCHARDT shared a childhood of storytelling with her sister, Anne Rice, in New Orleans. A professional nurse, she has also nurtured a profound interest in little-known periods of history. She is the author of
Devoted
,
Beguiled, The Silver Wolf,
and
Night of the Wolf

She lives in Houston.