Phaze Doubt

With reason. After the third assassination attempt against her, Brown knew better than to trust any stranger even slightly. She associated only with other Adepts, whom she mostly detested, and with the werewolves of the local Pack. They, at least, could be trusted. But that did not mean they were close. They were invariably polite and accommodating, but they had their own lives and commitments, and she realized that she was imposing when she visited them too often.

Then she broke her foot. It was a stupid accident with a golem. She had had it carry her to the Red Adept’s castle—Stile had arranged to install Trool the Troll in those Demesnes, and to her surprise the troll turned out to be an excellent Adept and excellent man—so that they could make arrangements for further exchanges of magic that benefited both. But on her return trip the golem had stumbled and fallen, and her foot had been caught. She had needed healing and assistance, and had to go to the wolves for it.

They had helped, of course. They assigned a bitch to care for her and manage the castle under her direction, until she mended. This was Lycandi, fifteen years old, the same as Brown. The bitch was nice enough, and attractive enough in both her wolf and woman states, but was something of an outcast because she had rejected first mating and never achieved the final syllable of her name. This was probably why she had been assigned to this chore: she would hardly be missed from the pack.

The healing of the foot was slow, but Lycandi was patient. Indeed, it became evident that the bitch liked this assignment, for here there was no pressure on her to do what she chose not to. They talked, and Brown learned the bitch’s concern.

A werewolf was not considered mature until he or she indulged in a first, ritual mating, and exchanged syllables with the partner in that mating: the Promised. Thereafter those two would never mate with each other again; each would find another to pair with. Lycandi had come into her first heat two years before, and had received offers from several wolves, but had turned them down. In the ensuing time she had steadfastly refused to mate, though it locked her into juvenile status.

“But why not, ‘Candi?” Brown asked. “It be a simple thing to do. I were not able to fend off the village boys e’en when a child, while thou—“

“Didst thou like it, when they forced thee?” ‘Candi asked sharply.

“Nay. I hated it. But—“

“I, too.”

“But that were because they were louts. Were it the Adept Stile who sought me, or e’en a handsome wolf in man form—“

“I like not wolves or men, that way.”

“But surely the mating urge, the companionship—“

“Companionship, aye, and mayhap the urge. But not with wolves.”

“Then with a human man. That may count not toward the completion o’ thy name, but I have heard they can be fine temporary lovers.”

“Why didst thou not take such a lover, then?”

“I can trust no human man. Three tried to kill me.”

‘Candi nodded. “Thou hast reason, then. Me, I wish no lover, nor man neither wolf. That be my shame.”

Brown was amazed. “But an thou hast the urge—“

“Any bitch would tear my throat out.”

Brown stared at her. “A bitch...”

She saw the bitch, in her girl form, sitting beside her, suffering. She reached out to comfort her, then drew hastily away lest she be misunderstood, then moved again. Something in her own life was coalescing, a mystery she had not fathomed before.

“Wouldst settle for one who were no bitch?” she whispered.

Lycandi gazed at her, her eyes wet. “Thou—Adept—“

“And woman.” Brown caught her shoulder and drew her in.

Then they were together, kissing, their tears mixing. Brown had never imagined love of this nature, but now she discovered what it offered. The ambushes of the boys had soured her on males in a way she hadn’t fathomed, and the assassination attempts had soured her on adult males. Now she realized that it was more than that. She had loved Stile, in part, because he was unavailable; he would never seek sex with her. The violence of the male, the urgency, the cruel brevity—this was not to her taste. But this, gentle, sensitive, understanding of her nature, with a female...

And so they were lovers. Lycandi did not depart when Brown’s foot healed; she became servant and guardian, and Brown paid a wage to her Pack, for the loss of one of their members. Neither of them ever stated the true nature of their association to any outsider, for neither the wolf nor the human cultures would have accepted it. The problem of companionship had been solved, for them both.

But in time Lycandi had sickened with an intractable distemper that sometimes affected wolves. Magic could ameliorate it only so far. Two years ago she died, and Brown was alone again.

The horror of her isolation closed in on her once more, not one whit abated because she was now a mature woman. She missed her lover, and grieved for her, but that would gradually pass. The lack of companionship would not. Brown saw no end to that other than death.