Silver Secrets

Chapter 14: Mel

We don't take the mountain road after all. We'll be harder to track if we zigzag through Deepacre Forest, though Rowan looks none too happy about the prospect. I have a suspicion that he's been this way before—the Wolfstone Mountains have to get their name from somewhere.

When the forest is near enough that the air carries the tangy scent of pine, I finally muster up the courage to ask him. If my suspicions are right then there's a reason he hasn't mentioned it before. I don't know what his relationship with other werewolves is like and I don't want to upset him by bringing it up, but if we're going to be set upon by a pack of angry werewolves as soon as we enter the forest, I want some warning. Maybe I'll need the silver knife after all—that's the only reason I didn't throw it in the millpond as soon as we left that woodland.

"Rowan, where do you come from?" I bite my lip, wondering if he's going to try to lie. I can usually tell when people try that, but only if I'm specifically listening for deception in their thought-buzz.

He stiffens in the saddle, but I detect no lies when he answers. "My...my old pack live in a cave system near the upper tree line. It's well hidden."

"We'll have to cross through their territory, won't we? Is that why you're nervous?"

"I am not nervous. They're just my pack. But yes, going through Deepacre means going through their—our—territory. The wolves lay claim to the entire forest. Can't avoid it, really."

That makes me pause. "They'll let us in, won't they?"

Rowan shrugs. "There's a gate at the bottom of the mountain road. Wolfsgate, it's called. Always guarded, but people are never refused entry. It's traders who use it, mostly. Werewolves aren't the only ones in the woods; it's just to remind people who's in charge." He glances over his shoulder, as if expecting to see the pursuers we may or may not have. "Unless they're an armed band of mercenaries or something. They'll be turned around if they're stupid enough to try the gate, in which case they'll try to track us through the forest. There won't be anything stopping them after that, especially if they figure out where we're going. They're not like to be frightened off by a statue."

"What statue?"

Rowan only stares grimly ahead. "You'll see."

Even after we reach the relative cover of the forest, our rest stops get shorter and shorter. My headaches come swarming back. I had barely noticed their absence, except when my fingers would brush the untouched bag of peppermint leaves in the bottom of my bag. Now, I hate myself for taking the reprieve for granted. I tell myself that the sooner we get to Highhold, the safer we'll be, but I can't stop the doubts that gnaw. Even if we are being chased—and the elemental girl could've just been living in that river and was angry I'd decided to take a bath in it—Highhold's walls will probably be rubble. They could shelter us from the wind and the rain, but not from people. If that elemental girl—and whoever she might have with her—does want to hurt us, Highhold will be about as much protection as the tent Rowan and I spend every night in, curled up together against the worsening cold.

~

Early one foggy morning, I discover what Rowan meant about statues.

We can't ride our horses in this part of the woods, as the game trails are too narrow and the bracken is too thick on the ground for it to be safe. Instead we lead them, weaving around trees so mighty that even the both of us couldn't get our arms around the trunks, and walking ever upwards. At this time of day there would be little light anyway, but the thick bows criss-crossing above us turn what light there is a pale shade of grey. I can only see a few metres in front of me, and the gnarled limbs snake and twist out of the gloom. My breath mists in front of me like a dragon's.

Then, I notice that one of the trees a little way in front of us is not shaped like a tree at all. It's too squat and the wrong colour.

As we approach, it becomes an enormous statue of a crouching wolf.

"Rowan," I whisper, reaching out to grab his sleeve. I don't like talking in the fog. Anyone could be listening, and I don't trust my powers to detect them, not after what happened in the river.

"What is it?" Rowan says, obviously not sharing my need for quiet.

"Is that the statue?" I ask, pointing to the hulking shape.

Rowan's face darkens. "That's the statue. One of them."

"There's more?" As we draw closer, I can see ivy dripping from the wolf's gaping jaws like drool—or blood. It's mounted on a granite platform that's nearly as tall as Rowan is.

"Ten," he murmurs. "One for each of the founding members of our pack. Juniper, Bardolf, Canagan, Felan, Filtan, Laria, Mag, Ela, Tathia, and Aurora. The legend says they're supposed come to life and protect the pack if it's threatened." As he recites the names, I get the distinct feeling he's stalling for time. When he finally turns to me, his expression is bleak. Pained, even. "Mel, from here on we are in werewolf territory for real. The ten Guardians mark the borders. This is the safest route to Highhold, but if you want to go and find the mountain road, then..." he trails off and slips one of my hands into his large, warm ones. My heart leaps into a wild dance that sends a flush to my cheeks. "I won't blame you. At all. We'll be safer from anyone following us this way, but my pack may not appreciate my return." To my shock, his voice actually cracks a little.

"Why not?" He never did tell me what he was doing in Moon Bay in the first place, did he? "Did they kick you out?"

His eyes widen. "No! No, it was nothing like that. I moved to the city with my grandfather. He was bitten, not born a werewolf like me. He wanted me to have a human life like the one he'd lost, so he left with me. I joined the Guard after he died. But...werewolves are more complicated than people think. You stay or you go, they don't like it if you leave and then come running back."

"It's a risk we'll have to take," I say, letting Rowan's hand slip from mine. I feel numb. Rowan's thought-buzz just took a shape I hoped I'd never see from him.

He is lying.