King’s Wolf

Chapter Eight

The Dance Master served the goddess well – and in exchange, she gave him gifts beyond the reckoning of the three peoples of Terrafyn. He had the ability to travel long distances in the blink of an eye. His way was much faster than the Telepath wise men could travel, even with the aid of the standing stones the Druids had made using the power of their minds — and the goddess’ blessing. He could fight with both sword and hand – faster and stronger than the swiftest and strongest humans and animals – and he could move not only objects with his dance magic, but time itself, as only the goddess could. It was said that he was granted even the power over life and death, but that was merely a whisper, spoken over fires when the liquor passed a bit too freely.

The Dancer was the goddess’ favorite child and her greatest servant. As such, he was much sought; it was difficult for him to find a moment’s peace, he became so desired for his dances, his intercessions with the goddess. She could escape the pleas of the people, going to wherever goddesses go when they tire of the prayers of their people, but the Dancer, he was bound to the world; for him, there was no peace once his identity became known.

The Dancer became a wanderer. He grew older, though in truth he never aged. He traveled from place to place, never staying anywhere very long, dancing his dances of praise to the goddess, touching the lives of the people he found worthy, and moving on when he found nothing to hold him.

Until one day, in a small village no different from thousands of small villages he’d already seen and left, he found love. It was a love as great as his love for the dance, as great as his love for the goddess. It was a love he had not believed possible. She had no magic, she could not even dance. But when he saw her smile at him, he felt like the morning sun had come out from behind the clouds.

The Dancer was faced with a dilemma to which he saw no answer, for he could not find peace with his love and live as other men as long as he had his duties as the Dance Master. Moreover, his love did not look upon him as someone she could love, but as a god. His dances became tinged with his sorrow. They were just as beautiful as before, and still they were filled with thankfulness, because he felt blessed to know love of this type, the love a man felt for a soul mate, even if he could not know his love as he wished to – fully, with his whole body, owning her heart as she owned his.

One night, a Dark Stranger came to the Dancer as he danced alone in the Moonlight. He was handsome, tall and well formed, wearing a cloak. He watched the Dancer silently for a long time, and when the Dancer was still, clapped his hands three times...slowly...in a mockery of true applause.

“Well done, Dancer. But would you not prefer to dance with your Lady the dance of love? I can show you the way to happiness...if you would care to be shown, that is.”

The Dancer looked up from where he crouched, his breast heaving from his exertions. The Stranger’s eyes gleamed in the dark. The Dancer knew at once…it was a Demon, come to tempt him. The Dancer shivered. It was night, and the goddess was not near. His dance had not been one of protection and his strength was low...wasted in pining, he told himself, impatient now with his thoughts of what could not be and might now cost him what he had. Demons did not give up their prey easily. He would be fortunate to escape with his soul – but that he was determined to do, as his soul belonged to the goddess first, and his love second.

Time for some cleverness, which he was feeling sorely lacking in.

“It is a fool indeed who turns down such an offer,” the Dancer replied, contemplatively. “How is my happiness to be found then?”

“All you need do is compete with me in dancing, Master Dancer that you are,” the Stranger said cheerfully. “I have heard of your dance skills for many years and I have been intrigued. If you can dance better than I can...well, then your wish for a normal life with your lady will be granted, if not, well then....”

“Then?” the Dancer asked, sensing that the trick was already sprung on him, and feeling six kinds of fool.

“Well then, dear Dancer, you must become my Dancer, and forfeit your status as your goddess’ chief praise boy and worship leader – so in some ways, it is a win/win situation for you, do you not think?”

The Dancer realized that the only true thing about the Stranger’s words was when he said that he, the Dancer did not think – clearly he did not think before speaking to this stranger! He also saw that he had somehow become trapped the moment he had asked to hear about this stranger’s plan for helping him to find happiness. How much better if he had simply gone to his goddess with his dilemma!

He resolved not to make that mistake a second time. Smiling at the Stranger, the Dancer stood up and stretched – the Stranger’s eyes followed his lithe movements avariciously.

“I accept the challenge but not the prize you offer if I win – I will continue as my goddess’ Dancer if, nay, when I win. And who are to be the judges?”

The Stranger smiled. “Why, a mix of the peoples of Terrafyn seems fair, do you not agree?”

With a wave of his hand, he summoned a dozen people. Four were druids, solemn, humorless – the pleasures of dance were not for them; they would be examining the technical merits of the movements only, or perhaps the benefits of exercise? Four were Metamorphs – but of the bat and coyote types – so two were blind and two were known for blindness of a different sort. The coyote Metamorphs were brash, wild – their reputation was that they were given to practical joking and immune to beauty of any type. Difficult judges indeed.

The final four were humans – but crippled humans, beggars, in fact, who cried out to the goddess daily at the gates to the larger cities, yet their pleas had not yet been answered. At least, not with the answer they sought. Where the Druids looked at the Dancer with boredom, and the Metamorphs looked at him with either blank eyes or eyes filled with mockery, the Humans looked at the him with a mixture of envy and even hatred for all that he had and they did not.

The Stranger had picked his judges well. Or so he thought. Because it soon became clear that he had no intention of dancing better than the Dancer, if he even could. Going first, he swept his cloak around in a swirl of noise, which was sufficient to move the air so that the blind bats could sense his movements and the coyotes were amused by his lack of true dancing. The Druids were intrigued by the question of whether his actions constituted dancing or not, and debated the question avidly before deciding it did – and because it was new and different it must therefore be deemed excellent because it had never been seen by them before.

The crippled humans liked it because even they could do it – and if it was excellent dancing, as determined by the learned Druids – then they too could be excellent dancers! They were ready to rule in favor of the Dark Stranger also.

Smirking, he magnanimously reminded the judges that in all “fairness” they should first wait to see what the Dancer had to offer...before ruling against him. Grumbling, the judges settled down to watch.

The Dancer walked before them, and before dancing, he raised his hands to the night sky. Unbeknownst to him, the woman he loved was watching, as was the goddess, who had taken the form of an old woman so that she could see what it was in this ordinary girl that had so captured her dancer’s heart. As they watched him stand before the angry judges, the goddess in disguise whispered to the young girl.

“He is going to lose, why doesn’t he run away? Or ask his goddess for help?”

The girl turned to her, eyes flashing. “He is brave! And he is true, none truer! He loves his goddess more than anything! He would never dishonor her by hiding, or believing that she would fail him in a time like this! The goddess does not need to be asked for help by a true servant like the Dancer! She knows what he needs before he has to ask! Why, the goddess can make those stupid coyotes have a heart for beauty, and give the bats eyes to see, so it would be nothing for her to give the Druids wisdom in place of their intellect, and heal those poor people too, and she would do it all through the power of his dance. And then, why then, she must love a servant like the Dancer so she would give him the happiness he seeks. The goddess can trick that dark stranger at his own game, and show him he cannot treat her servants so cruelly right under her nose! That is the type of goddess our Dancer serves.”

“Well said, girl,” the goddess in disguise told her, surprised but pleased by the answer. And as her servant the Dancer began his dance, thinking it his last free dance for his goddess, she decided that is what she would do.

The goddess’ hand moved over the judges and she granted to the Druids magic to see visions in the movements of the dance, to foretell the future and know the past, and understand the deeper meanings of the world with their wisdom so that they could seek to preserve the beauty that existed in every living thing – starting with the movements of the dance.

The blind Bat Metamorphs found that they could “see” his dance in a whole new way, through the heat of his body as it moved, and the thrum of his blood in his veins made their cold blooded hearts sing.

The Coyote Metamorphs were more difficult – reaching a soul that has become hardened to beauty, that laughs at hardship, to whom others’ pain is funny, that is tricky indeed, but it was done with the fine hand of the Dance Master’s touch, without the goddess needing to do much at all but still the Coyote Metamorphs’ minds enough to get them to really watch, for the Dancer put his own pain at anticipated loss into his dance, the loss of his human love as well as his beloved goddess. Once she did that, they were transfixed.

Still, being a goddess, she decided to do more, and so for the coyotes, to honor them for serving as judges in this important test of her beloved Dancer, she elevated those two beyond their kind – granting them an appreciation of beauty that was almost painful. The two chosen by the Dark Stranger became not only stronger, bigger – their fur softer and richer – but they raised their heads to the Moon in song to accompany the Dancer, howling their praise to the goddess and to the Moon, for whom they gained a new affinity that night. Their line was blessed from that day forward by the Goddess, and were more like Wolves than Coyotes.

It was the human hearts that were the most difficult to know how to reach – the goddess now knew to blame herself for their bitter hearts. Before this night, she had not realized that her servant bore his fellow man’s bitter hatred for all the human petitions she did not grant.

She watched as he danced for the human judges who could not dance themselves, and he did not do as the Dark Stranger did when he faced them, abstaining from dancing so as to make himself one with them. No, the Dancer leapt his highest, and spun faster, whirling wildly, his dance a thing to marvel at.

And the humans who did not know what it was to dance and never had – they wept at the sight. For the first time, they learned to pray to the goddess prayers that were not just for themselves, and they learned to give prayers of thanksgiving to her for putting such beauty in the world. They gave thanks for their eyes, which made it possible for them to see the Dancer dance for them, and for the Dancer, who did them the honor of dancing his best for them, and allowing them to see what could be done with limbs that worked so well. They felt the anguish of loss in his dance, their loss and other losses, but also the joy of love, of the goddess’ love for her people. Oh there was so much more in their prayers, so much more in his dance, so much more than mere words could ever do justice to.

It would take a Dancer to convey such emotions.

To the humans...who had lost their bitterness and in whom she sensed a true gratitude for their newfound appreciation for the beauty of the Dancer’s gift – she gave the gift of dance also, allowing the Dancer to heal them with his magic. Feeling the power within him, he motioned for the humans to join him. Compelled, they stood, not even realizing that they were doing so until they were waving their arms and legs in the moonlight, moving along in his path. Dancing. And then they laughed, joyously, the tears drying on their faces as they lifted them in the moonlight, moving faster and faster behind the Dancer as they gave thanks.

The Dark Stranger tried to slip away.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The goddess stopped him at the edge of the woods. She was still disguised as the old woman but it did not fool his otherworldly eyes – he fell to his knees and kept his head down, in the hope that she might be amused by his trickery and spare him. The goddess liked to win enough that she might be lenient.

“You owe my servant his reward for winning,” she reminded the Demon. “Did you think to leave without giving it?”

“What could my small reward be to him when he has you?” he stalled.

“Ah, but you promised happiness...you cannot promise such a thing without being able to give it, now can you? Such treachery is beyond foul, even for your kind...and your master.”

The goddess dropped her disguise and appeared in all her magnificence. The Demon fell prostrate...her glory was too much for his darkness to look upon, and he knew his error in daring to tempt one of her loyal subjects, indeed, her most loyal. He could feel himself shrinking, his power seeping away.

“Wait!” the Demon gasped. “I did not lie...not completely. Your Dancer is not happy, and will never find happiness of the type he needs as long as he worships you.”

The goddess paused in her punishment. She searched for a trick but it was a rare creature that could fool her – and this Demon was not such a creature as that.

But her Dancer was. Had he been fooling her all these many years? Fooling her into thinking he was happy? She turned to watch him now, standing on the edge of the joyous crowd, the dancing and singing people, the earnest Druids. The only person who was not filled with joy was her beloved Dancer. Now that he was not dancing, he was like a lamp from which the light was gone.

A goddess did not feel regret – it was not in her nature. She waved the Demon away – he earned reprieve with the insight he had given her, though she knew better than to think he had wished to do her or her Servant any favors. “Go...but know that if I ever catch you trying to harm my Dancer again...”

“No further words are needed,” he assured her, and he was gone before she could say more.

“You have won this day, Beautiful Lady, but a battle is not a war, is it?” The goddess did not need to turn around. She knew that her ancient enemy stood there. She should have known that he stood behind this charade. She raised her chin.

“Your servant lost – mine won. Have you come to admire my Dancer? It is not like you to spend time on beauty.”

“On the contrary, there is nothing I enjoy more than stealing beauty,” the Fallen One laughed. “He would have made quite a prize.”

“Not your prize to win,” she said coolly.

“Not this time. But as I said, a battle is not a war. And a goddess does not offer the pleasures to a man that a warm willing female does – no matter how devout he might be. Care to wager on the next battle, lovely one?”

The Fallen One dared to reach toward her. She cast a bolt of fire toward him. He laughed and faded away. The darkness caused a shadow to fall over the revelers below. She was annoyed – but stubborn also, in the way of goddesses, and where before she had tired of her subjects’ gratitude, she now was determined that nothing would cut their pleasure short. She bade the Moon to shine brighter, and cast the clouds away.

Sensing the fear that briefly visited the humans, though the Metamorphs were happy so long as the Moon shone bright, the Dancer led the dancing once more, continuing until spirits rose again. For their part, the Druids were fascinated by the apparent changes in weather and the seeming connection to the astronomy and were making assiduous notes.

Once the humans were caught up in the revelry again, the Dancer retreated to the sidelines to rest and observe. Adopting the guise of the old woman once more, the goddess went to her beloved, wanting to ease his loneliness. She took a mug of wine to him and a robe, simple gestures that she had seen villagers do many times after his dances, to thank him, much as his dances thanked her, she now realized. Just as he shared in their anger, he shared in their pleasure, but the pleasure was far more earned than the anger, since he worked for their pleasure and he had no control over the things that caused their anger. Destiny was in her hands, not his.

Keeping her demeanor simple, as she thought a peasant would, the goddess approached the Dancer with her gifts, and spoke, “Dancer, would you accept this robe, this wine, as humble tokens of my gratitude?”

The Dancer turned, startled. Before him stood seemingly an old woman – but the robe she held out was finest fur, and the wine was in a goblet of pure gold. The old woman had her head bowed – and what old village woman bowed her head, even to the Dancer? – yet her voice, for all that she tried to seem demure, was pure music. The Dancer fell to his knees, and kissed the tattered robe of the goddess’ disguise.

“My Lady.”

Two of the formerly crippled humans came running over, bidding the Dancer to come see a new dance that they had developed – the Metamorphs had fashioned some drums and the Druids knew how to make pipe music from reeds, would he join them?

The goddess shook her head impatiently. Looking around, she wished for all the others to leave them, Druids, Metamorphs, Humans alike...she just wanted them to be gone so she could speak with her Dancer privately.

So they were gone. The Dancer raised his head, the sudden silence alerting him to the need to tread warily. A goddess was a fickle mistress. He wanted to search for one particular human whose form he had seen among the admiring villagers but feared doing so might destroy any hope of those who had been removed ever being returned. Instead, he turned his full attention to his deity. “How may I serve you?”

His mind raced as she remained silent. “I beg your pardon for dancing in such a contest, My Lady, but I saw no other option. It was trickery, I knew, but once I spoke to him....”

The Dancer shrugged, his handsome gesture spoke volumes. He was always better at communicating with his body than with words; this was no exception. He felt himself lifted to his feet. He was not a tall man and she was tall in this form – the guise of an old woman was abandoned once more; she now appeared as a woman in her prime and lovely, but not so beautiful as to be unapproachable. It was this form that he saw her in most often.

“I would that you would be happy, my Dancer...why are you not?”

“I am blessed to be your Dancer, my goddess. Thank you for your aid tonight – you were ....”

“Your gratitude is not what I seek, Dancer,” the goddess said, her face that was beyond beautiful was tinged with sadness. She saw now what her enemy had seen before her. She would need to let her Dancer go in order for him to be happy.

“My Lady?”

He was puzzled – he had never seen her look so sad – angry yes, but not sad. Sadness was a human emotion in his experience. The goddess could change whatever made her sad. Indeed, she thought, picking up his thoughts. Pulling his head down, she looked into his eyes, a lovely blue.

“I find that I want you to be happy, my child. Go to your love, raise a family, build a house, raise crops, or fish, do whatever it is you would like to do with your life, shake your fist at the uncaring goddess...but when you are done, I will want you to come back to me, my beloved Dancer....” So saying, she kissed his brow, sending him into a deep sleep. When he awoke, he was cold, roughly dressed, and more strangely, a peek into the silvery glass outside the ale house told him that instead of his black curly hair and dark skin he now had pale golden hair that looked like the goddess.

His eyes were still blue as the sky on a bright spring morning, though. And his step was lively with grace as he went inside the ale house to seek employment, remembering nothing but his name...Mychal.

************

Michael and Colin found that Rafe had carried Melli back to their bedchamber. Nic and Lycan were with them, as was Magda, who was busily warming water telepathically. Nic was calming Melli while Lycan was doing his rough best to calm Rafe. At the very least, he was keeping him out of the way so he would not worry Melli with his clear distress.

Colin went directly to Melli while Michael went to his younger son, pulling him away from the big Metamorph in order to enfold him in his arms.

Breathe, son...you will do neither your child nor your Queen any good if you are conquered by your fear.

Rafe swallowed and nodded. Michael held him for a few more moments, sending calming sensations his way.

Meanwhile, Colin was examining Melli, who was paler than he’d ever seen her, birth pains making her clench Nic’s hands so tightly he winced from the force.

Her pains are close, Colin, and her water broke. I fear that this may be difficult to stop. Fen went to get Fianne but she is away, attending one of the women from the village, he tells me and she cannot leave yet. And there is something else.... Nic kept his telepathic speech limited to only Colin, no easy feat for the twin, used to sharing his thoughts with his brother, especially now, when Rafe was straining to “hear” anything they might be thinking about his beloved wife.

What? Colin asked impatiently, conscious that it was only through Nic’s greater power that he was able to keep his own thought private. He was having trouble keeping as calm and impassive as he needed to be — this was Mellisande, as close to being his child as made no difference, and who now was in such pain! He took a deep breath and felt the calming sensations fill him, He knew that as he placed his hands on her distended belly, troubled by how still she was, it was important that he be as calm as possible; he could not risk sending his own anxiety to her or the unborn children. He knew she was doing her meditative breathing and did not want to disturb her but the fact that she was not ordering everyone around and directing this...that was very unlike his Melli. Yes, the babies were early but not dangerously so, well, not terribly dangerous, he was confident of his ability to handle an early birth – so something else must be troubling her, as Nic indicated, but what?

Colin, please...make them leave. I...need just you here. Please ask Michael to take Rafael somewhere. Maybe have just that other druid stay here to help you, please? No one else.

Melli?

Please Colin, do this. Michael can get them all to leave.

Colin did not want to do it, but Nic had a sense of what was going on, Melli still not being as skilled at keeping others out of private conversations as he was, so he intervened, and sent a message to Colin.

If it will keep her calm, is that not the important thing? Let me go handle my brother...and I will have Michael and Lycan wait with him right next door. I will stay here to help you but keep myself shielded. I think I know why she wants the Druid Deryk, and it may be a good idea to keep him handy, but I will not consult him unless you give approval.

I do not understand, Colin complained, worry making his tone sharp.

I know, Nic replied soothingly. But I hope you know that I want these babies born safely as much as you do, as much as Rafe does. I love Melli and I love these babies, my brother’s babies. That has not changed.

Colin sighed, and then he rested his forehead on Nic’s gently. I know that, Nic. And I know that you will do everything you can, as I will, to bring these babies safely into the world. And to keep Melli safe also. Even if it means letting that other Druid help, though I do not understand why it should.

Nic smiled fondly. I know you do not, but I think I do. Talk to Melli some more while I talk to my brother and father...and mate.

Colin did that as Nic slipped away from the bed. He found himself grateful for the years of training – it enabled him to stay calm as Melli told him her secret, the reason she was sending her husband away from the birth.

The baby, at least one of them, the boy, maybe the girl too, but definitely my son, he is not...oh dear goddess, it is both of them, which is better than if just one, but why did it have to be either. Surely this is a punishment for my failure to treat Lycan as I should….

What is it, Melli? Please! You’re not making any sense! Colin felt so frustrated he was about to start pulling at his hair, which was one of Michael’s habits when Nic was particularly trying as a boy. Melli raised stricken eyes to him.

The babies are...I am afraid...

Colin smoothed her hair back from her damp forehead and tried to help her focus her thoughts.

What is it dear? I realize you are afraid and yes the babies are a little before their time, but that is not uncommon for twins, it is almost normal, in fact, and I can assure you, they will be fine. You just need to relax and...

No! She essentially shrieked in their minds — if it were not for Nic providing a shield for her thoughts every telepath within leagues would have heard her.

Colin, the babies are not normal babies! A trace of hysteria could be heard in Melli’s mental voice. My babies are cats, Colin. Mountain cats! I am afraid they are going to tear me apart when they are born!

Colin struggled to maintain his equilibrium.

We will make sure that does not happen, Melli. Your son has been foreseen as the King of the First and Third Kingdoms – and the Leader of two Peoples – of course he will be born safely and you will be fine. Your daughter will be a great beauty and seer. You have seen yourself holding both of them, I know you have.

To Nic Colin sent the calm message, I believe I would like the assistance of the Druid Deryk after all. Please ask him to come, Nic.

I will send Michael to Ben, was Nic’s reply. I think I’d better stay here, and send Lycan to keep my brother out of the way for now.

***********

“I need your help,” Michael said, bursting into the room where the Druid Deryk was tending to the needs of his brother Ben. Or rather, his cousin Ben. Whoever, he thought impatiently. The point was, their help was needed.

“What is it?” Ben asked, as the Druid stood protectively near him. Michael wanted to roll his eyes, much as Nic would, but he forced himself to be patient, wondering what it was about his supposed brother, and for many years, his apparent enemy, that made him want to regress to his most childish behavior. If he and Colin were not behaving in such uncharacteristically childish ways as well, this would be an excellent topic to discuss with his mate.

Michael paused...perhaps he should make the time to discuss this with his mate for exactly that reason? As long as it did not make Colin even more suspicious of Ben and Deryk, although perhaps that was exactly why he should have such a talk. The longer he pushed such suspicions aside, the worse they became. Like an infection that went unlanced, he thought, twisting his mouth as he watched Deryk finish cleaning an ugly looking wound on Ben’s side.

Ben’s eyes, so similar to his own, were watching the direction of his gaze and the older Emory laughed at Michael’s expression.

“Some of my kin are known to have nasty bites...they leave infected wounds.”

“So I see,” Michael said, distracted from the point of his visit for a moment. He really should attempt some more healing before that infection spread....

“You had a need for us, Lord Michael?” Deryk’s voice was soft but firm; he was not eager to help but felt obligated, Michael decided. He directed his answer to his brother.

“Queen Mellisande’s time is not for several more weeks; I am sure you realize that she is carrying the heir to both the First and Second Kingdoms – the Emory heir from Adam’s designated heir, not to argue the rightness of that line with you,” he added, seeing the amusement in Ben’s eyes, and acknowledging, as he knew Nic did even if Colin and Rafael would not, that there was more to this question now that they knew that Ben’s birthright had been stolen from him. It was a far greater issue than whether one twin had been substituted for another, for example – sending an elder child and his child away and raising the younger son to be King.

It was a troubling thought, and one that raised all sorts of questions about what it meant to be King and what constituted destiny, for if there was anything that Michael truly believed, it was that Nic was meant to be the King for this Age, for all of the goddess’ peoples.

Michael did not realize that he had been standing, lost in thought again, until he heard his brother Ben’s thought in his mind, asking, Am I to believe that your message was urgent, Michael, or did you just want to catch us unawares when you burst in like you were three again and hiding from your bath?

Michael started. “I am...I was...” He looked at Ben and Deryk, confused.

Ben struggled to get up from the bed; Deryk hurried to assist him, protesting. Michael moved forward, placing his hands on Ben’s chest, pausing him in his movement.

“Let me assist you first. I can do this while Deryk gathers his, whatever it is Druids gather for assisting at a...birth?” Surely it was still a birth when it was part cat children who were expected? And where did that thought come from, he wondered? Wasn’t it just the fact that the children were early that was a concern?

Giving up at explaining, Michael sent images to Ben, who relayed the necessary information to his Druid companion, relieved that Michael had given up on awkward speech. The Hooded Men relied on Telepathic speech much more than this branch of the family seemed to, he thought. Swiftly, he sorted out what was going on, despite his fatigue, and also managed to convey to Michael the need for Deryk to be given access to stores of herbs, which Michael assured him Magda and Fen would assist in, or Colin, though the latter was said doubtfully.

“A Metamorph would be useful also,” Ben said easily. “Is there none here who is skilled at healing among them?”

Michael frowned, but that might have been because he was concentrating on healing Ben at that moment. Deryk was fascinated by the skill shown – the Emory Prince was able to heal after being near death himself the day before and without resorting to the mana restoring draught more than once, due to his partner’s squeamishness over it? Amazing. Deryk resolved to learn more about the fabled Dance Master’s powers.

“Bran will know,” Michael murmured, his thoughts on cleaning away the poison from Ben’s ripped flesh. He lifted away the black, oily looking substance – and was struck by how much it resembled the darkness that had been in Chace, Lycan’s Pack Member long months ago. This poison from the bites had to be spell caused, he felt, and made a note to discuss it with Ben at the first opportune time.

“That is much better,” Ben said, his voice stronger.

Deryk spoke the words of a healing prayer, followed by a prayer of thanksgiving, then wrapped the now clean wound with a poultice. He moved quickly, then spoke to Michael.

“I am ready to go with you, M’Lord. If you do not need Lord Ben, perhaps he can rest and....”

“I am fine, Deryk, do not be an old woman,” Ben snapped, taking the sting out of his words with his crooked smile. He swung to his feet and slipped his feet into a pair of worn slippers that had appeared from somewhere, no doubt conjured by the inestimable Deryk, Michael thought. Then he decided he should probably have more clothes brought to the room for his brother, who was after all a prince, even if he was one who had fallen from grace.

His status now was in flux at the very least, and he had saved their lives, and was hopefully about to save more lives.

With that thought, Michael summoned one of his very best tunics, and handed it to Deryk to place on his Master. Deryk looked pleased but Ben only raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“A tunic, Michael? Verily, I feel like the prodigal dancer himself. I do hope you do not expect me to take a turn around the room with you, however, as the Queen may be doomed if my dancing skill is what you are relying on. I had assumed you were counting on my animal magnetism.”

Michael blushed. “Let us go now to Melli, we have tarried too long as it is,” he said sharply. Ben just laughed, his low, hoarse chuckle comforting in an odd way, as it reminded Michael of teasing from decades gone by.

***********

Back in the bedchamber of the Queen, events were progressing too quickly for Colin’s peace of mind and he prayed that Michael would return quickly – not that he was pinning his hopes on the outsiders. He really was not happy with that strange druid being allowed anywhere near Melli.

He just always felt better when Michael was near. And he was not willing to leave any stone unturned when it came to ensuring the safety of the children that Melli carried.

Rafael tried his best to be calm around his beloved bride, and speak words of love and comfort to her as she dealt with the pains of childbirth. He had assiduously studied every bit of advice he could find in the written annals of the Telepaths and humans, and he even listened to the bards for hours, as well as the words of wisdom of the old wives, and of Druids and scholars...suffice it to say, he was terrified for his wife and unborn children.

And he got on Melli’s nerves within fifteen minutes, to the point that she screamed for Lycan to remove him from the royal chambers and take him to the training grounds until their firstborn child was old enough to train with him and take his head off.

“She does not mean it,” Lycan told him confidently, taking him by the arm and firmly leading him beyond earshot.

“I would not be so sure,” Fen murmured, torn between worry and amusement. His empathic senses were on overload. Lycan grabbed him by the arm as well.

“Sometimes there is more to understanding a situation than mere understanding,” Lycan said cryptically.

“That makes no sense,” Rafael complained.

“Listen to him,” Ran advised. He met up with the three men in the hall – word of an impending birth, especially a Royal birth – traveled quickly. “Your Bondbrother is known for many things but angering a female who is about to give birth is not one of them. And in this instance, experience is worth more than all your Telepath tricks, so learn from mine and his.”

Rafael and Fen looked at Lycan in surprise, nay, make that shock. Fen voiced the cause, since Rafe was still mainly focused on his wife.

“Lycan! You have children and you never told Nic? He really is going to be upset with you for not telling him, but also for not letting him meet them! And for being away from them for so long! He would feel that you should have....”

Lycan and Ran were both perplexed for a moment, but then Ran laughed. He turned to the larger Metamorph. “They think that your experience of birthing females necessarily would come from being a father – as opposed to your duties as Pack Leader. Which, given how neglectful you were this past year, it is an honest mistake.”

Lycan cocked his head in thought. “I do not believe any of my primary Pack had cubs this past year, Raven Master, thank you for your commentary! As if anything would have been more important than finding my Cub! But you are right, they do not understand the difference in our ways – and seem to have leapt to the conclusion that my experience was not that of a Leader for his Pack – a fatherly type experience to be sure, but more like yours and an actual....”

“Seeding of the fields.” Beren’s hearty tone joined the discussion as the Bear Metamorph came around the corner. “May the goddess bless me, if Lycan were to be like you, Raven Master, there wouldn’t be any game left in the forests, we’d be overrun by Wolf Metamorph Cubs! Thank her wisdom she made this one prefer men, with his appetites....”

The teasing continued, much as Lycan had planned when he removed Rafe from the birthing room. Nic would keep him posted on Melli’s progress, and indeed, Rafe as well, but in Lycan’s experience, second-hand as it was, some fathers were a hindrance when a woman was concentrating on the serious business of bringing new life into the world.

“So, who brought their pipe?” Beren asked, getting ready for a long leisurely day telling tall days before the fire – and the tale of the Standing Stones of Tumeric was the first that needed to be told, in his opinion.

“I did...but let us wait for Bran, he was going to the kitchen,” Lycan said practically. He pulled Rafael down onto a comfortable seat next to him.

“Sit, bondbrother – babes are not born in an hour – or ten.”

“And it is thirsty work!” Beren announced cheerily.

Rafael looked at his friends, unsure whether to be angry or upset.

Fen touched his mind with a thought. Take comfort from their demeanor, Rafe. I do not think they would act in this way if they felt there was any risk to Melli. They do this because they have been through many more births than we have.

But not births like.... Rafe paused. Melli was terrified that their children would bear the “Emory taint.” Was that indeed a true risk? He felt so guilty.

That is silly. It was his twin’s voice that came into his mind this time. Would you feel pride over your children having purple eyes? You would have just as little control over that – and since we have identical material as twins, according to what Colin has taught us about such things, my seed would be as likely to cause a part Metamorph as yours, you would have no more taint than I do.

Rafe had to smile at Nic’s simplification of the complex biology that Colin had tried to teach them when they were young, making them study the procreation of fruit flies and examine the color of their eyes for many generations until Nic and Melli swore they were cross-eyed. But Rafe had found the lessons fascinating. The Druids of the Third Kingdom had studied something they called “genetics” as a means of strengthening the characteristics of the Royal families – and they had long argued in favor of the Royals intermarrying with the other Kingdoms and with non-Royal Telepaths to strengthen their families and prevent weak traits from becoming too strong.

That is, certain Druids had believed in such practices. Others believed in keeping a purity of blood and line and taught the very opposite of wisdom, in Colin’s view.

The mingling of Metamorph and Telepath was a very controversial view, but it had its detractors as well as its strong adherents, as any controversial theory did. Colin did not teach Rafe and the others which of the adherents’ views he favored; he taught only that they existed.

Apparently Deryk’s Order was of the school that favored the inter-mingling. Thank the goddess.

Rafe decided to allow himself to relax…for now at least…and listen to Lycan’s telling of the raising of the Stones of Tumeric by King Dominic. He even sang part of the tale himself…after a few tankards of mead.

************

Lydia was bored. She was feeling weak but that was no reason, to her way of thinking, for remaining in bed. She wanted a good long soak in the river, but she supposed the bath would make a nice enough substitute and it had the advantage of being close. She needed time to think and the bath’s quality of supplying more hot water whenever the current supply cooled off was very useful. It was nice of the mindtwister girl with the strange name to explain it to her.

She should not call them mindtwisters, she knew. What had Niccon called his people? Telepaths, that was it. They had all been kind to her…more or less. Still, they were strangers and she had difficulty adjusting to strangers. Most of the time, that was. Nic was different. He was so easy to like, to feel comfortable with. He felt like Pack immediately. She felt like she belonged with him, though surely she would not have felt that way had she known he was the King! A King who already had a Wolf mate, she mocked herself. She and her dreams of being the King’s Wolf.

And yet….Her thoughts continued on the same paths. Niccon’s father was another much like Niccon was, her instincts told her, and yet, for all that he told her to call him Michael, and she felt like she could, she was not quite sure what to make of the Dance Master. He was a handsome man, much like her Niccon in appearance but very clearly a man in his prime where her dear Niccon was still a boy in some ways. A beautiful boy, a goddess kissed, gifted boy, but nonetheless, a boy.

She made a most unladylike noise at her reflection to show that she was not fooling herself – that “boy” had stolen a heart that she had believed to be very well hidden for almost ten winters, and all the while, his own was safely in the keeping of the one man from whom she would not even attempt to take it.

She frowned at the reflection as she lowered herself into the steaming water. The female, what was her name, Maggot? No, that was not right but something like that. Magsa…Magda! She stayed after leaving food to explain how to work the water which appeared without pumping and how to make it hot without fire. A very clever trick. Such magic to have at one’s fingertips, though she said it was not really magic, that it was something called mechanics.

It was difficult to stay depressed when as comfortable as a warm bath could make a person, Lydia decided pragmatically. The past ten years had been hard ones, and the hardship and loneliness, rather than making her bitterness against her old Pack and Lycan deepen, had served to make it fade in some ways, and in others, it changed. She had spent many nights thinking about the events that had made her leave the Pack – thinking about the love that had seemed so strong, so true. Her love had been that of a young female for a male who seemed brave and strong. Experience made her see his actions differently. She now looked at certain actions through what Bran’s Dame used to call the “tincture of time.”

Lydia wished she’d had the advantage of it back then. Alas, unless the Druids knew a way of bottling it, which they might well have discovered, clever men that they were, Wolf Metamorphs were bound to discover things the hard way – through hard knocks. She had no doubt in her heart now that Lycan was, as he had insisted at the time, the wronged party in the challenge that took place back when Meko wanted to be Pack Leader. Poor Meko – he wanted so much but was so ill-suited for his wants. Lydia could see that now, but then? All she could see was his charm, his avowed love for her and what she thought was Lycan’s jealousy. It was the other way around, of course, but she was too young to recognize that. So she lost everything, her love, her brother, and even her Pack. All because of her stupid pride.

Lydia moved the soap around desultorily. The water was cooling. She considered adding more hot water and staying in the relaxing bath. Or...she could seek out her brother, try to make amends. She knew that Nic wanted her to stay here, and she suspected that what Nic wanted, he would get. Which meant that Lycan would...what? Put up with her being here with the children that Nic fathered on her? The Dance Master, Nic’s father, made it clear that he would stand as father to her children if she were not comfortable with Lycan’s feelings in the matter. She could not ask for better standing for her children, even being the heir to the King, which Niccon’s children could possibly be, (although she had heard whispers when people thought her deeply asleep, of his brother and the brother’s expected children being heirs); to be in line for the throne of any or all of the Three Kingdoms was not as impressive as being under the direct protection of the Dance Master, if you were to ask any Metamorph. All the goddess’ protection and favor and none of the trouble! She was so honored by Michael’s offer, and as a mother, knew she would accept it no matter what Niccon offered her. It freed her to leave with her children as being under the Dance Master’s protection safe-guarded her indeed, but more than that, it freed her to stay. Who would dare boss her around if she were the Alpha female to Michael?

But...what of the Pack, a small voice inside her asked. Lycan was her brother, and he is, at the very least, Uncle to these children, bondfather to them, at the greater claim. Bran had told her that Lycan had not yet fathered his own cubs, and indeed, was not in any hurry to do so, his whole interest being in Niccon. While the Pack did not necessarily choose its Leaders from the sons of a Leader, it was frequently done that one who was like a son was raised to be the next Leader. That was the case with Meko and Lycan – one of them was going to be Leader when the old Leader passed on, it was merely a question of which one.

Making up her mind that she needed to stop thinking and start doing, Lydia resolved to get out of the water and go find her brother. It was time they talk, see what changes the years had wrought. She grinned to herself. If nothing else, she could tease her brother that at least he could no longer fault her taste in men.

That would likely go over well with him, she thought to herself, wondering if Lycan still took himself far too seriously.

 

***********

Deryk was quiet upon entering, choosing to observe the young Queen for a few moments before taking any action. Nic was next to Melli who was on the birthing bed; at the moment he was getting his hand crushed as she suffered through an especially intense pain . Colin was chanting some calming prayers while he scanned some books on Metamorph/human births, attempting to find something that might be of use. Melli had refused to allow any of the usual women attendants in the room so it was a fairly bleak, quiet room as birthing chambers went.

Michael looked to Ben, unsure of himself. He remembered Suzanne’s chamber as being very different when the twins were born, but then, she had been the youngest daughter of a very matriarchal royal family, and the birth of twin sons had been quite an event. Ben knew a little of Third Kingdom ways – his wife had been from the Third Kingdom after all – and their reliance on Druids was second only to their self-reliance. He told his brother as much in a telepathic message. Then he added:

But such an attitude is dangerous in this situation, so your young Queen was wise to request Deryk, as he is probably one of the few non-Metamorph experts in this type of birth. The best Metamorph expert is Pelien. If you could get his help, you would be in a much better place, though Deryk will do all he can.

Michael frowned. Pelien, what can he do?

Ben raised an eyebrow. Other than the Dance Master himself, quite a bit; he is said by legend to be the one who has successfully delivered the most mixed blood infants, dear brother.

Michael felt a chill. His eyes met Nic’s. They recalled Nic’s vision from so long ago, or rather, what seemed like so long ago, yet less than a year. Before Nic’s capture, before the wedding, before the conception of these infants who were threatening the life of the young woman whom they loved so much.

What should I do? Michael asked Nic, whose bravery was unequaled in his father’s estimation, and who had given so much already so that these children would come into the world safely.

I believe that she is at risk, Father. Despite all our visions, this scene now, it worried me as it is so much like the vision I had, of that first Emory child whose life was linked with the Metamorphs. Pelien was joined with the Dance Master then. There was a spell dance he performed but he was too late – do you know what he did?

Michael was slow to respond. He knew that he did not have full recall of all that his Master had taught him, though more of it had come back over the past year than he had used in the many years before, during their hiding period. Prior to the events at Candone, he had not been sure if he had lost his power, or the goddess’ favor, and then, his temerity in healing Donal when he had gone so long without serving the goddess fully....

Father, can you help Melli? Is this something the Dance Master can do, or do with Pelien?

Michael shook his head, not in a negative, but to clear it. He looked at the two Druids, one the relative stranger who had accompanied his brother, and the other his beloved Colin. He hoped that Colin would understand his leaving him with this unknown quantity – and he hoped that this unknown quantity realized that any wrong move on his part toward his family would mean more than his painful end, it would mean the end of all he held dear.

Deryk’s sudden pallor and convulsive swallow seemed to indicate that he had no trouble reading the expressive green eyes of an Emory Assassin even when that role is long since abdicated.

Ben looked amused. “Stop scaring my Druid, little brother, when he is here to help. Are you staying or going. You have a better role to perform, I believe, while these two learned gentlemen would be best employed delaying this birth.”

“Can that be done?” Michael asked sharply, though quietly, so as not to disturb the meditations that Melli had successfully begun.

Colin looked to Deryk. As much as he hated to rely on this stranger, he was caught between the storm and the cliff’s edge on this – he would do anything to ensure the safe birth of Melli’s children, but he did not have the necessary knowledge and this Druid seemed to be their best hope.

He made a decision.

“Will you give me free access to your thoughts during the time you assist?”

“Will you give me the same?” Deryk’s temper, usually even, seemed to flare at the implied insult. He was only there to help; if this younger Druid of the House of Allym did not want his aid, he would be content to look after his own Royal Metamorph. He was only in this room because Ben had asked him to come and his expression made it clear that he would prefer to be elsewhere.

Nic looked up from where he had been helping Melli meditate, and decided that he could safely leave her for a moment – mediation between the two Druids seemed to be a more paramount need just then.

“Deryk, thank you for coming,” Nic said, getting to his feet. He glanced at Michael who had moved to the window and was staring out moodily. No help there. Ben was doing likewise, no, he was actually staring at Michael. Odd. Nic turned his attention back to the two Druids, thinking that someone should be paying attention to Melli, and soon.

“Two such learned men of the Third Kingdom Druidic Orders should be able to work together without melding minds – or is that the only way you can trust each other? How strange. Would you be able to work together if I offer to mediate? I will do so, and assist as much as I can in your efforts, which might come in handy in the future. But let us make an effort to trust each other, as every moment we work against each other is one more step we take in the aid of our enemies.”

“Well said, nephew,” Ben spoke from his place near Michael. He had taken a seat, his injuries, still not fully healed though much closer than anyone might have expected them to be at this early stage; in any event, they were beginning to make themselves felt. He gave Deryk a pointed look and the man, his expression guilty, rushed to pour him a glass of wine. A silent exchange must have taken place, Nic thought, for, after a slight pause, Deryk poured three more glasses. One more pause, then he added a fifth glass.

Ben smoothly said in his deep voice, “Let us drink a toast to the Queen and then we will begin our efforts toward bringing her safely through this delivery. Please, Michael, leave off your brooding for a moment and lift a glass to the goddess and ask her blessing on this birth – as the Dance Master and the goddess’ favored one, I believe it is your place, even above our honored Druids, for you to ask her to bless these children and their mother.”

Michael turned back toward the room, startled by his brother’s words. Nic shook his head slightly. This is not the time to argue with a brother over old slights, as you might tell me, Michael, just take his words at their plain meaning and do as he suggests as it seems like good advice to me also. The ‘learned Druids’ are not complaining, which is a plus.

Indeed, Colin and Deryk were bowing their heads, waiting expectantly, standing by Melli’s bed, one on either side, their goblets raised in the offering position. Nic moved to stand at the head while Ben moved to the foot, their goblets also raised.

Closing his eyes, Michael drew upon his memories as he raised his goblet, lifting it high above his head. Almost without conscious volition, his body began to move, slowly at first and then faster, the steps not anything he remembered learning. He sent a telepathic message to the others when it was time for them to consume their wine; his was sent into the ethos, an offering to the goddess.

It disappeared...and after a flash of light, so did Michael.

Ben was the first to speak, as the other men looked around the room, dazed. Colin and Nic’s first thought was to check on Melli, who seemed to be resting quietly, no longer suffering from the labor pains.

“Are the babies okay?” Nic asked worriedly, and then, “Is Michael?” He searched for his father telepathically but could find only a faint echo of his thoughts. He looked at Colin questioningly. The older Telepath shook his head.

“I cannot sense any more than you...he is alive, I am sure of that, but more I cannot say.”

Nic and Colin both looked at Ben and Deryk; the former, his demeanor now that of a Royal Prince, Nic couldn’t help thinking, as opposed to the Hooded Man, as he quietly instructed his Druid servant to stay near the bed and monitor the Queen and then gestured toward a grouping of chairs placed near the fireplace. Colin and Nic followed him over to them, Colin only slightly hesitating. Deryk saw the hesitation and assured him quietly, “I will take every care with the Royal Mother, my Lord Colin. I would not bring dishonor to Lord Ben, even if it were my desire to harm any mother, which it is not. I do accept your request and invite you to monitor my thoughts.”

Reaching out his hand, Deryk touched Colin’s. Nic watched bright-eyed with curiosity as the two Druids spoke words of some arcane spell.

“What they are doing is a very old spell, usually limited to situations between a captured Druid and his captor,” Ben whispered. “When healers were needed who could not be trusted, they were forced to submit to this spell, Deryk is submitting willingly which makes it all the more effective. It is a very great thing for one Telepath to agree to undergo this for another, much more so for a Druid.”

Nic could understand that. Even between him and Rafe, close as they were, complete access was not the rule. There were always thoughts that they preferred to keep private. It would be very difficult for him to give anyone else access to his thoughts – other than Lycan, his bondmate, and even he was not given free rein to everything, Nic considered, thinking to himself of certain thoughts that were better left private.

Ben nodded. “You can see the trust level required – or more, the level of subservience. It is a measure of the importance placed on the safe delivery of this line of the Emory heir, that Deryk subjects himself to this spell. I hope your Colin appreciates it.”

Nic did not respond. While it did not occur often, this was one of those times when he did not know quite what to say. It did not escape him, however, that his Uncle did not answer him as to Michael’s safety.

Nic looked around him. In one short year, so much had changed. He was now allied with one of the hooded men — and that man’s druid servant! — and the Kingdom would soon have new heirs to the throne with his beloved brother and adopted sister having children. Moreover, in a surprising twist of destiny, he now had not one beloved Wolf — but a second one as well! And he also was going to be a father. Yet even as his first tremendous quest for the goddess was now successfully completed, he sensed that his father’s was just beginning, and all of them were going to be tested once more, perhaps none more than Michael, but he too was going to be tested, and more than ever before. He prayed that the goddess would grant sufficient strength to both Michael and him, and all of their friends.

Nic looked Ben in the eyes that were so similar to his father’s…and yet so different. He saw encouragement there, and courage.

Destiny weaves a strange path, he mused, as he wondered how to tell Colin and Rafe that Michael was on a quest and might not be back that day…or the next. The Dancer had gone in search of his lost mastery of the dance to aid them in the coming war, and his first task was to learn how to save Rafe’s children and Nic’s heirs, as well as his own heir, the Dancer’s Heir.

[Author’s Note: This is the final chapter of King’s Wolf. This story will continue in Dancer’s Heir.]
 

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