Chapter Text
Joren Baker was sleeping when they came to his village. His mother shook him awake, her face half-shadowed as she leaned over him. “Get up!” She hissed. Orange hues seemed to dance outside his window as he blinked awake. There was the thudding of hoofbeats, and the shrill sounds of screams. His mother, a homely woman named Margaret, pulled him to his feet.
“What’s going on?” Joren asked. He cast a look around his room for some pants.
“I don’t know,” Margaret responded. Her hair, usually impeccable, was falling from her sleeping bun is large wisps. She only had her nightgown on, a grey and coarse material that fell somewhat past her knees. “Knights from the Argent kingdom are out there, in the square, killing. It’s only a matter of time before they start opening homes up.”
Terror filled the young boy. And young he was, a small lad for the ten years he had lived. It had helped his parents, for when a goat had scrambled somewhere improbable, he could squirrel up after it. “Why? What do they want?”
Metal clanged from outside the window, ringing through the room. Margaret gripped his arms to turn Joren to face her. “That doesn’t matter now. Take a horse from the stables, ride for Hale Castle. Queen Talia will send men back with you, I swear it.” She pushed him towards the door.
“What about you?” Joren looked at her. She glanced back down at him, her mouth a grim line. She had blue eyes like him, the kind that made the baker’s daughter and the inn keep’s niece blush. In that moment, the crow’s feet and other weary lines around her face made her look ancient to Joren.
“They are knights. Knights of the Argent Kingdom, yes, but knights none the less. They won’t kill a defenseless woman.”
She hurried them along the house’s length. It was a small and modest home, two rooms and a place to sup, but it was good for a farmer and his family. “You’ll take the backdoor,” Margaret decided.
When they opened the entrance, the one that did not spill out into the village but rather towards their farm, Joren saw that their fields had been set aflame. The frost that regularly dusted the ground had melted but done nothing to prevent the blaze. The stables lay on the far side of the field, past all the fire and smoke. From here, Joren could hear the screams of fright from the horses.
Joren spun to look at Margaret. “I’m going to let the rest of the horses out. Mother, you could leave with me.”
Margaret smiled at him. “Your father married me for many a reason, but not for my horse riding. I would slow you down, and you need speed.” Joren felt his lungs constrict and it was as if his legs battled his mind on whether they should collapse. “Go.” She urged him.
Joren ran to the horses.
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The road to Hale Castle was long, but one that he was familiar with. After several hours, when the sun was high in the sky, Joren knew that none of the Argent knights were riding after him. It was only then that Joren dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. He spent the next hour crying, feeling untethered and scared. The road was one that he took with his parents often. They would all go to the castle, with their wagon loaded with grain and salted goat and horse meat. His mother would sing tavern songs to make him chuckle, and he would dart ahead to pick flowers.
After the hour was up, Joren chastised himself for wasting time on the trivialities of emotion. If he focused on how he felt, then he could be a day or more later to the castle. That would be a day or two later to his home. Margaret was waiting, waiting for him to come back with knights of Hale.
He rode for several more hours, stopping in intervals to rub warmth into his legs. While he wore thick sheep fur and leather from their skin, Hale Castle was farther north than he would prefer to travel with only his night clothes. When the sky was only dusted with the same orange that he saw from his bed window, he stopped his horse for the night. Joren knew how to make a trap for rabbits or squirrels from his father—a man who was named Joseph. He had died two winters past, when fever took him.
But that was not what Joren thought about as he tied the knots for the trap. There was barely enough rope in the pack that he had slung on the horse along with its saddle, but he could reuse it as long as he didn’t nick it. They kept the packs with the saddles for journeys, whether those journeys had been planned or not. Inside the pack was a tiny knife, the rope, and a blanket to sleep on.
Joren focused on how his father had shown him, several times, how to tie the knots before actually tightening them. He remembered how he had proudly brought back the first squirrel he had ever trapped, old and nearly blind and thin, but his father had hooted and picked him up to swing around. He had carried Joren back to Margaret, boasting of how capable of a hunter their son was. His father had caught bigger game, but that night they added his squirrel to the pot of stew. It had been tough, and took altogether too long to chew, but Joren had never tasted stew so good.
Tonight, he had captured a snow rabbit. The only part of the rabbit that wasn’t as white as the surroundings was its coal-black eyes. Joren tried not look in them as he snapped its neck and worked on skinning the creature. He skewered it, planning on storing the rest for the next night when he finished cooking it. The meat made his mouth water and when it was finally cooked, an eternity past, the juices ran down his chin and onto his sheep skin.
Somewhere in the wood, a wolf howled. If Joren was anywhere else in the world, he might have feared that a beast would come prowling around at the smell of the rabbit, ready to cut down a boy for it. These woods resided in the Hale Kingdom though, and man and wolf were often the same. Should the howler creep to his encampment, they would surely shift back to their man skin and share the fire with him. It was this knowledge that allowed Joren to drift to sleep.
The next day had him riding hard, recognizing the dark trees that ran past him. As the trees became taller, the wood darker, and the trunk wider, he knew he moved closer to the castle. Joren would reach it on the morrow, before the noon. He passed several wagons and saw wolves of varying sizes and shape dart through the woods around the trail.
That night, he made camp early, on an outcropping of rock that he could sweep the foot of snow off of. It would make a rough sleep but at least he wouldn’t wake up soaked to the bone. While he worked to dry part of the rock enough to light a fire, a man and his daughter stepped out of the woods.
“Good morrow.” The man called to Joren.
Joren looked at both of them. They wore shirts and pants that were thinner and appeared to be barefoot. They were both tan-skinned, with dark eyes and hair that was wild. The girl, even smaller than Joren, held a set of rabbits in her hand, bloodied with teeth marks in it. Wolves, Joren thought. “Good morrow.” Joren responded.
“We were hoping to share that fire there with you, boy.” The wolf gestured to the small amount of dry wood that Joren was able to find. “We have meat that we could share.” He offered.
“I have a little bit of rabbit left over from last night when I caught it, but the fire can cook more.”
The two walked over to him while he still worked the flint over the leaves and wood. The man watched him struggle for a moment before taking the flint from him. “My name’s Cal. My daughter is Lauren.” He struck at the flint hard enough to break it and yet, it stayed strong and the flicker caught the leaves. Smoke begin to drift up from the fire.
“Lauren, go and scrape some bark off the trees. It’ll make good tinder to get this wood to light.” The girl, Lauren, dropped the rabbits next to Joren and darted off to do as her father said.
“My name’s Joren.” Cal crouched near the bottom of the fire pit, blowing on the leaves to encourage them to catch. The embers grew brighter. “Are you also headed to see the Queen?”
Cal nodded. “Aye, we’re from Little Branch.” Joren knew of that place, a few miles south and east of his village. It was close enough to the Silver Sea that it was often used as a port for the trade between the Argent Kingdom and the Hale Kingdom. Sailors would dock there for a fortnight, and make part-lives, his father used to say. Take wives and father children, that they would see once every six months while on route of their job, before going home to their true wives and children, if those are from further south or further north than the Little Branch village. “A few days past, an Argent ship docked at our ports. We thought they were bringing up maybe wine or cheese to the lords and ladies up here, but instead, when the men stepped off their ship, they took to pillaging our home. They set fire to the inn and looted from the blacksmith and slaughtered the butcher. I would have stayed and fought, but my daughter isn’t old enough to defend herself and I couldn’t have her come up here alone, could I? Rapers and thieves crawl along this path, looking for a young girl such as herself. So, I took us both up the Queen’s path to speak about the injustice.”
While he spoke, Lauren had returned with her shirt as a makeshift-basket to carry a pile of bark. Cal pulled her toward the fire and had her dump the wood chips onto the barely-lit fire. For a moment, the smoke was smothered out and it appeared as if they had killed the embers. Then edges of the wood chips began to catch and crinkle from the heat. Joren watched it all while trying to quash the feeling that something was wrong, if two southern villages of Hale were attacked by Argent men. “What brings you up toward the Queen, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Cal had a wide face, crooked teeth and crow’s feet around his eyes, like Joren’s mother. He watched Joren with his dark eyes, and Joren couldn’t decipher what he was thinking. “I’m from Grey Stone.” Joren started. “Argent men attacked us as well, and my mom told me to get men from the Queen to help our village. She stayed back, said that she would slow me down. Said that they wouldn’t hurt a woman, you don’t think,” Joren cut himself off before he could finish, shaking like a leaf.
A warm hand settled on his shoulder, warmer than any human’s touch. He knew that wolves ran hot, knew that was why the cold climate suited them and that was why they needed less clothing that a human like him. “Mother Moon will protect her children.” Cal promised. “I’m sure your mother is waiting for you, so you best get the men quick, so she doesn’t scold you for making her wait.”
Joren smiled at that. He could just picture Margaret on the steps of their home, with her light blue dress on and an apron tied over it. Her bun of grey hair would be pulled tight up on her head, and her eyes would follow Joren as he ran to her. She’d catch him and tell him good work, for getting the men, but what took him so long? The knights who attacked them grew old and died while she waited on him.
He missed the look that Cal threw to his daughter, tight and worried. She stood behind them both, fidgeting on her feet. The fire was well and good started now. She picked up one of the rabbits and began skinning it.
Joren watched her, for she had no knife to cut the skin off and yet did it cleaner than he had ever accomplished. Lauren instead had claws where her fingernails had been, her blade a true part of her body, instead of something she needed to learn to wield. She noticed him watching her and shot a cheeky grin at him. Her hair fell in clumps around her shoulders and she looked as feral as an actual wolf.
Lauren made quick work of the rabbit and soon, both were cooking above the fire. Fats dripped into the flame, loud sizzles and pops responding. Cal asked if he knew any songs, and Joren sang a bawdy tune about the young Princess Cora and the time she shifted and hid from her family for a whole moon by confusing her scent from rolling around in horse dung.
The night passed around the fire and his blanket was warm when Joren retired to it. Sleep came easier than it did the nights before, dawn broke and Cal shook him awake. He told Joren that they were going to take their leave and when Joren had finished waking, he realized there was a rabbit leg left near the smoldering remains of the fire. He ate quickly, drinking a little of the water that remained in his skin before saddling back onto his horse. If he was fast about it, he stood a chance of being able to speak to the Queen today at court, instead of waiting till the next day.
Queen Talia Hale always held court outside, among the biggest trees that Joren had ever seen. Behind the trees was the stone castle, peeking out through the leaves. It had four towers, one facing in every direction. Each tower was a different color stone from the far reaches of the Hale Kingdom, with the east tower being a light grey that was pulled and sanded around his village. It was their namesake, after all. The west tower was pure white stone, and it was rumored that the squires were sent to clean it or even the Queen’s own children when they misbehaved. It shone even at night and came from Moonpearl, where the Queen’s lord brother reigned. His father told him about how at Moonpearl, when the moon hung fat and heavy in the sky and made night shine like day, that the rocks in the land glowed back just as brightly.
The south tower was red stone, coming from a farming town that brushes against the neighboring kingdom, Stilinski. They were mainly a grain village, with rich earth that was said to be as red as blood. Looking on the towers, Joren was inclined to agree. And the north tower was black stone. It came from where no village was, at the edge of the kingdom, and the edge of the world. The Queens of old had sent their knights and masons and their strongest men to as far north as they could, where many had died in the night due to the bone-breaking cold to find if there was a way to live up there. The resounding answer had been no, not even for the wolves, but they had found rock that was so black that at night it was as if you were walking on the sky.
The masons had fashioned the rocks into bricks, and the men had dragged them all the way back to the castle. Each tower stood tall and proud, with interconnecting bridges of varying color to connect each, and rooms for the servants below the bridges.
The stones were mixed everywhere else in the castle besides the towers for each had strengths, but also weaknesses that the builders had hoped to subvert. The red stone would turn soft when it sleeted here during the summer, and the black stone was fragile when held against flame. It would crack open and shatter into a dozen pieces when heated. The grey stone, while tough, did poorly when dry. It became so rough that the masons could not work with it and scraping yourself against it would cause blood to well up.
The white stone, beautiful, strong and smooth did not seem to have any actual weakness. It had only been considered poor stone when, a few Queens before, the castle attempted to blow out all the candles to hide her from a scorned lover. This Queen was one of few that was not Queen and Alpha. She took to the white tower, for he could not soften the stone or crack it. However, the glow of the stone had given her away and he climbed up the tower and cut her down where she stood.
While the castle showed the unity of the kingdom, Queen Talia preferred the quiet wood, with more space than any castle could hold, to have court.
Joren rode his horse to where he saw other people standing and waiting. He dismounted and walked with his horse by bridle to the end. Queen Talia couldn’t even be seen from this distance, tight knot of worry settling inside his breast. He spied Cal several people before him, clutching his daughter’s hand.
The woods were older than the castle, and Joren remarked on their size as he waited. It is said that the Hale pack used to roam these woods, before they found their man skins. All other wolves would bow to them and all creatures of the wood feared them. One day, a Hale princess spied a human hunter in the wood and cried to Mother Moon about her love for him. Mother Moon answered her pleas by gifting her with human skin, but also made the Hale princess keep her claws and teeth and eyes of the wolf. She went to the human hunter and he fell in love with her as well. But the Hale princess missed her wolf family terribly and cried to Mother Moon about her aching heart. Mother Moon answered her pleas but fashioning a way for the Hales to move between human and wolf skin, so that they may always seek comfort where they wish.
Mother Moon had one request for the Hales, that when they build their stone homes and grow their size, they do not cut down the trees in this grove. For these trees were fashioned by Mother Moon herself, to grow in her light instead of the rays of the sun. These trees were the children of Mother Moon and should not be felled lest she turn her heart away from all wolves forever.
Joren could understand why the goddess may not wish for there to be harm to such dark, beautiful trees. The wood was nearly black, and the bark was smooth all the way up the trunk. The trunk appeared to be made of many hardened vines, so close together that there were no gaps to cling to. The large leaves that hung heavy on the branches were a deep green, wide and coarse to the touch.
The line shuffled ahead, step by step. Each step took Jordan farther into the grove, where the trees were even larger. At one point, he reached a tree that was as long as his horse and so tall he feared he couldn’t see the top of it. Sounds were muffled in the grove and the air felt like magic was upon them.
Finally, as the sun began to creep below the trees, Joren made it to what constituted the audience room. Queen Talia Hale sat regal upon a pallet of soft cloth and light colors, with her court surrounding her. Some sat on pallets like her, others stood and even others had chosen hard, wooden seats. Joren watched as Cal moved forward with Lauren and expressed his complaint.
The Queen turned her head to a man standing next to her, frowning before whispering something to him. Undoubtedly, every wolf in the clearing had heard what she said, but the words were lost to Joren. It was somewhat from how far he was from her, but also because she was using the wolf language. Joren’s father had known enough of the rough language to get by in the marketplace, but Joren had never been able to pick it up. To him, it sounded like growls that settled in the back throat and yips that originated in sound from the nose. The man who stood at Queen Talia’s right replied just as quietly, but in human tongue.
Joren recognized that this man was not King Conan Hale. He was plump, with skin that was darker than even the wolves surrounding him, and a bald head and a short cropping of hair surrounding his mouth. He wore an ivory doublet and brown breeches. When he spoke, he spread his hands in front of him to gesticulate.
Queen Talia cleared her throat, though the grove was already silent. “I have heard your complaint, and I will send soldiers and healers back to Little Branch with you. May Mother Moon protect you, child.”
Joren could hear Cal’s response. “And may Mother Moon protect you as well, my Queen.” He bowed deeply to her, pulling his daughter down into a curtsy as well. Queen Talia nodded her agreement before he moved to leave.
The next several people had complaints about grain and thieves and wives. Joren paid them no mind and instead focused on the court. Queen Talia had the clear appearance of a shifter about her, with black hair and eyes, full lips and sharp cheekbones. Her skin was smooth, for wolves aged differently than humans. Her hair was oiled until it shone, hung loose and free as was wolf custom, and even sitting there in a royal dress, her stature spoke of the strength in her body. The dress she wore was a deep green, set to match the leaves above her. It had a high neck line and the arms swooped low. Instead of having any ornate trim-line, there was plain black. Her crown was a simple one, made of silver and fashioned to look like small leaves circling her head. Joren likened her to the trees she surrounded herself with.
Her daughter, Princess Laura Hale sat slightly below and to the side of her. She wore a green dress as well, but it was layered to have the inner dressings be a bright yellow, which she also chose as her hemline. She looked like summer come to life, a younger, less stern version of the Queen. She had a slight curve to her stomach under her dress, barely showing. Joren remembered when his mother had come home one day from the market and told him how the princess was expecting.
Princess Laura’s brothers, Prince Conan Hale and Prince Derrik Hale stood behind both of them, on the left. Prince Conan wore a lavender doublet, and pants that were bleached to the nearest white that the leather could hold. On top of the lavender top was a heavy coat of wolf fur. It was a white coat, supple and full. Prince Conan had it fashioned so that tufts of the fur were braided with pieces of soft gold. He had tan boots and gloves, that had fur sticking out from both. He stood out among the rest of his family, just as his human status did.
When he was born, apparently, rumors swept across the lands about the Queen taking a consort. How else could two wolves birth a human? However, as Prince Conan grew, he became almost twin of his King father. A lighter complexion than most wolves, with hazel eyes and sandy hair. He shared the eyes with his brother, Prince Derrik, but that is where the similarities ceased.
Prince Derrik was severe in face, a stern look that mirrored his mother. While the Queen would often times lighten her features with a smile, the same could not be said for Prince Derrik. Joren had heard about when the wolf had lost a love, how he had stayed between his wolf skin and his human skin. The rumors said he kept the teeth of his wolf form and would snarl at anyone that came close. He spent his days whittling down his claws by scratching at the walls of his rooms. Joren’s mother would spin stories of how the prince would come to their home and eat him whole if he misbehaved.
As Joren looked at him however, he looked as much man as any other wolf in the clearing. He was tan, with a short cropping of hair and stubble that covered his jaw. He wore only a shirt and breeches, all that a wolf would need to stay warm. Both were black, and the shirt had the deep green trim. The fabric probably came from the same swath as the Queen’s dress.
A knight took his horse from his hands as he shuffled closer to his Queen. The soldiers in the Hale Kingdom usually wore stiff leathers above their clothing, easy to move in and able to shift in. Injuries healed faster on wolves, so they needed less steel than humans. Most of the Hale soldiers were wolves, and it was easy to pick out the human ones.
He looked at the wolf, who nodded towards Queen Talia. Joren moved forward, dipping into a bow before even looking in her eyes. “My Queen,” His voice cracked.
“Hello, child. What do you require of me?” Queen Talia asked perfunctorily.
Joren raised his eyes, before averting them. Others in his village, those that stood here before him, had said that it was hard to look the Queen in the eye and Joren didn’t understand. Now, with something queer tugging in his gut, it made much more sense. “My Grace, my name is Joren Baker. I live in Grey Stone.” He took a breath. “A few nights ago, my mother woke me to Argent knights attacking and burning our village. She bid me to come before you and beg for knights to take back home.”
There was a smattering of noise around the court. He dared a chance to look around. All three of the Queen’s children looked perplexed, Princess Laura and Prince Conan looking to their mother. Prince Derrik looked directly at Joren. When he noticed, Joren dropped his eyes, fear crawling up his spine. Prince Derrik looked to be furious at him for the simple reason of existing.
The strange man dipped close to whisper in the Queen’s ear. She said something back, too low for Joren to hear.
Queen Talia raised a hand. “Are you certain that it was men from the Argent Kingdom?”
“I never saw them.” Joren started. “But my mother did, and she has housed many of their men, so she knows their sigils, and she said they were so they were.” He finished more firmly that he had begun.
Queen Talia evaluated him for a moment. “Very well. I will give the same to Grey Stone as I have to Little Branch—thirty men to defend them, and ten healers to set to rights my people. May Mother Moon protect you.”
“May Mother Moon protect you as well, my Queen.” Joren responded. She clapped her hands, frown tugging down her features.
“Court is adjourned for today, my ladies. There are other matters that I must attend to. We will continue on the morrow. May Mother Moon protect you.”
There was an echo of the sentiment back to the Queen. She nodded at them all, before turning and sweeping towards the castle. A troop of men followed closely behind her with the guise of protecting her. Joren was young, and it was the first time he had spoken directly to the Queen, but he had no doubt that she did not require even a third of them.
The ladies and lords of the court followed after her. Joren couldn’t pick up much from the subdued conversations they were having, before the man who took his horse touched his shoulder. The palm was warmer than it should be naturally, surrounded by this much snow.
“I’ll take you to the barracks, so that we can collect the men necessary to go back to Grey Stone. My name’s Ivan.” Joren shivered while he nodded. Ivan smiled at him, a slow, sure exposure of teeth. It made Joren feel more comfortable. “We’ll also find you some suitable clothes, so that you don’t lose any limbs waiting around in the snow.”