Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

39. True Wolf

The sky above the Buyan Isle stole Volya's breath away.

It was a special night, ripe with magic. It filled the air as tangibly as the fragrance of crushed grass and the rustling of the oak leaves.

The moon had only just risen, bigger than a cartwheel, brighter than a coin. Deceptively warm orange glow tinted its face and shadows hinted at its scars.

Even this huge, this close to Earth and to him, there was no mistaking the moon for the sun. Without the sunlight, the world filled with shapes outlined by its glow. Darkness cloaked the rest of the world, magical in its own right. Ground emanated the warmth of the gone day. If the magic of the sky expressed itself through light, the Earth's magic was a shimmering haze.

The fires stitched the two together, fastening the soil to the sky for this one night.

Yes, it was a breathtaking night.

Volya peered into Walkwes' faces as his vision focused on the celebrating crowd. They all held a mixture of awe and excitement and a sheen of perspiration from dancing. An ecstatic chant rolled over the gathering, spurring the dancers on. A bee swarm moves as one, but it consists of thousands of individual insects. The Walkwe women were the same when they danced. They linked hands weaving their squares, spirals, and loops around the bonfires, while the joyful singing rose to crescendo.

The firelight set the familiar signs painted on their bodies ablaze. But there was a new glyph as well, in white chalk: a crescent moon with its horns pointing down. Like a new fashion trend, it outnumbered all other sigils. He saw it on the women's foreheads and cheeks, breasts, thighs, buttocks. It was like a competition of who could fit more of the gleaming half-moons on their body.

The Walkwe changed so much from the grief-stricken refugees of his last vision, that Volya assumed enough time had passed for the wounds to heal. Hope must have sprouted and taken hold. It lifted his heart too, though he knew not what it was. He glimpsed at the sky, but his mist-wolf only smiled enigmatically at him. You'll see. Pay attention.

Typical. Volya sighed and shut off his mercurial guide. If the mist-wolf didn't want to talk, well, two could play this game.

He could be an observer watching too late, with precious little understanding, these people whose decisions ultimately had determined his fate. Was it arrogant to think that he was different from the other men? Wasn't every man just a sum of all the decisions all of his ancestors had made? Maybe. Tonight, his question to his ancestors was far more specific: Why did my mother leave me behind? Did you make her? How? Why?

The questions burned in his mind. It hurt, instead of warming his soul like the bonfires.

While Volya devoured the ritual with his eyes, trying to solve the millennia-old mystery, Akrum walked away from the gathering. He was neither singing, nor dancing, nor praying. Essentially, he was doing none of the things Volya would have expected a shaman to do on a night like this.

Slowly, Volya pulled himself together and focused on Akrum. He wasn't the only one who did.

Naktim emerged from the dancing crowd and came running after Akrum. She wore rows upon rows of carnelian and agate beads and a short shift belted under her breasts with a grass-woven belt. One of her braids ran over her chest, the other bounced behind her back.

"Akrum!" she exclaimed. "Wait! You don't have to leave."

"I could hardly ask the Spirits to quicken my womb, Naktim," Akrum responded nasally.

She grabbed the braid that dangled down her front and tossed it back. "You sure? The boon we're asking for is almost as big of a miracle as impregnating a man."