There was a reason why weather magic was banned. According to international treaty, weather mages were supposed to cast only under royal decree to avert natural disaster.
With Braugne and Guerlan at the brink of war, the implications behind the current weather spells were frightening. Had the king of Guerlan broken treaties and brought a cursed winter to Ys, or had Braugne?
Whoever was behind the weather casting, they had to realize they would be killing people. And if that wasn’t bad enough, now the barge that plowed so inexorably toward them carried the infamous Wolf of Braugne himself to the abbey’s doorstep, along with a company of his armored soldiers.
They had ridden over the snow-covered horizon just after midday. If they had arrived a little later, they could have walked across the narrow strait. Instead, the soldiers manning the oars had to work to force the barge through the floating sheets of ice.
Lily glanced at her companions. Margot stood at the forefront of the group, watching as the barge drew closer. The young redheaded prime minister of the Camaeline Council was a striking sight in her fur-lined ivory cloak and matching gloves.
Six priestesses stood with Margot, three on either side, the women flanked by armed Defenders of the Hearth. Lily was the middle priestess on the left, just another woman among others.
Unlike Margot, nothing about her stood out. Her cloak was a humble brown, although thank the gods, it was lined and warm enough, and underneath it she wore sturdy winter boots, black trousers, and a thigh-length quilted winter jacket over a plain white tunic.
She was shorter than Margot, and darker, with olive skin, brown eyes, and fine brown hair that refused to grow past her shoulder blades or remain respectably confined by pins. In the summer, she spent as much time as she could outside, often barefoot, and the sun had tanned her to a deep nut brown.
There were a thousand women like her—a hundred thousand—working in farmers’ fields, minding shops, and tending to the highborn in their manors and castles.
Pleased with her anonymity, she tucked both hands inside her cloak. She was also pleased to see the other priestesses standing with the same straight-backed pride as Margot, as did the armed Defenders who flanked them.
In direct contrast to their composed appearance, the air churned around the group, filled with images only Lily could see.
What she called the psyches of each individual hovered above and behind their heads, like shadows thrown on a wall.
When she and Margot had been children in the abbey school, Margot’s psyche had been that of a gaunt, starving figure, and it had overshadowed her youthful beauty, at least in Lily’s eyes. No one else had been aware of it, and as Margot came from a wealthy, noble family, they would have been hard-pressed to believe Lily if she had told them.
Things had changed once Margot accepted the newly created position of prime minister of the abbey council. As soon as she had a place and a function where she was loved and needed, her psyche had filled out. No longer starving, it had turned fierce and protective.
The psyches of the other priestesses and the Defenders were restless with banked aggression, nerves, and outright fear, but none of it showed in their set faces.
Behind them, the gates to the abbey had been closed and barred in compliance with the Chosen’s orders. The gates were set into ancient stone walls that bordered the cliffs at the island’s edge.
In the nearest watchtower, members of the abbey council, other priestesses, workers, and townsfolk watched the impending confrontation through tall windows.
The stage for the meeting was set and the audience assembled. If nothing else, this should make interesting theater.
Within a few moments, the barge had neared enough that Lily could make out the features of various soldiers. They stood at parade rest.
The man at their head captured her attention.
The Wolf of Braugne was younger than she had expected, perhaps not yet thirty. He stood with his broadsword drawn, the tip planted in the planks between his feet, both gauntleted hands wrapped around the hilt. His dark hair was windswept, his hard face weathered from the elements.
Stories of him had tumbled across the six kingdoms. They had grown more horrific with each retelling. At midsummer, the Wolf’s brother, the ruler and lord of Braugne, had died in a catastrophic avalanche that collapsed a salt mine as well as destroying a portion of the nearby town.
Then the first whispers about the event had reached the abbey, followed by other voices that grew stronger and louder. People started saying the tragic avalanche had been no accident. In an act of pure, calculated evil, the Wolf had murdered his brother, the lord of Braugne, and even now he marched across Ys in a bid for power, executing those who would oppose him, including their children and babies, and burning their homes to the ground.
At first glance, he didn’t appear to live up to his legend. He didn’t have glowing red eyes, nor did he tower head and shoulders above his men. Lily was a little disappointed, to be honest. She’d been fascinated by the idea of a forked tongue, cloven hooves, and tail.
But no, this was an entirely human-looking man. While he had the strong figure and erect carriage of an experienced soldier, he wasn’t exactly handsome either. In fact, he could blend into a crowd on market day and she might brush past without ever giving him a second glance.
Then, as the barge drew close enough to dock, she looked at the Wolf’s dark, glittering gaze and thought no.
She would never brush past this man without a second glance. His still figure housed an immensely forceful presence, as if a blazing meteor had been lightly cloaked in flesh. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a juggernaut wearing a mild expression as he paused to turn his attention to a tiny principality on his crusade for total domination of Ys.
If the rumors were to be believed.
She drew in a deep breath, and almost without realizing it, she pushed back her hood as she stared at him and his men.
The psyches of the soldiers on the barge roiled and heaved with as much restlessness as the abbey’s group on the narrow dock. The images were ghostly and transparent, making it impossible to tell them apart when the physical men stood so close together.
Collectively, they shimmered with fierce, eager energy, as if they were a pack of hunting hounds held on a tight leash, but she couldn’t get a specific reading on the Wolf. She would need to see him separate from the others before she could tell anything for sure.
Folding her lips tight, she ran her gaze along the edges of the group, trying at least to glean some information that might be useful.