Page 10 of Fate Promised

Chessa took a step and spun. Her exquisite coat, with its high collar, invisible stitching, and sculpted waist, fluttered around her. “I’m a walking advertisement. After everyone gets a quick peek at this season’s Ryba coat, I’ll nip back in the shop. Stop by, I’ll make some hot cider, and we can sneak some rum in when my customers aren’t looking.”

Several years ago, the Ryba coat became a sensation, with orders flocking in from as far away as Rohant and Stok. Chessa had designed it and became the most sought-after tailor in Ulterra. Triska knew the king of Rohant had told her he’d put her in an estate to become the royal clothes maker, but Chessa had refused, wanting to stay in Ryba. She’d told Triska the setup sneaked a little too close to feeling like a mistress, and if the rumors about King Henri were true, she might have had good reason to be concerned.

“And bring Hazel, for heaven’s sake. I need to get her in one of my coats.” No matter the weather, Hazel always wore the same thing—a red cloak. Then again, Triska almost always had on her fishing ensemble—oilskin smock, sou-wester hat, and sturdy breeches tucked into knee-high oiled boots, so who was she to comment on fashion with anyone else? Not today though, she’d left the smock at home, and the chunky sweater she wore was a Chessa creation, another huge hit throughout Ulterra, especially with the peltwalker clans in the north.

The judges moved closer to the water and held up the ribbon for the winner. It went to the scarecrow in the middle. Liam and Callum both appeared mutinous. Hazel put her hands on their shoulders and led them a few steps down the beach. She waved her hand. Twin tornadoes of sand, only a foot high, whirled in front of each boy. Light flashed, and the swirling sand settled, revealing two glass figures, one an octopus, the other a shark. Both boys gaped, then grabbed their gifts, dancing around Hazel. Their grins reminded her of Juri, their older half-brother.

Juri.

Mrs. Doubek returned to Ryba without Juri about ten years after the two of them left. She’d lived alone until fifteen years ago when she met a wolfwalker traveling through Ryba on his way south. He’d taken one look at her, and that was that; a short time later they had a mating ceremony. Since then, they’d had two wolfwalker sons. As far as she knew, Juri hadn’t come home to meet them.

Triska shook her head and stared out at the water. After all these years, Juri still crept into her thoughts.

She fiddled with her hat. In the century and a half since he’d disappeared, she’d gotten one letter from him. One. And read it so often the tough parchment—a scrap of paper with a tavern inventory list on the back—had turned as soft as a piece of linen, the ink faded.

He’d written to tell her he’d learned he was a vulk, and he was never returning to Ryba. That she’d never see him again.

Her first instinct was denial—no way was Juri a vulk. His mother was a wolfwalker, one of the demi-immortals who could shift into a wolf at will. A vulk was an immortal werewolf, one of the mythical beings who walked on two legs with wolfish features and remained in their werewolf form all the time.

But then … it made sense. He was always the largest boy in their class; even taller than boys several grades above him. By the time he was eight, he’d excelled at every sport and ran faster than anyone in Ryba. What was his life like now? How had he felt when he’d learned he’d become one of the strongest immortals alive?

All Mrs. Doubek ever said about him was that he was traveling Ulterra as he’d always wanted to. Triska never revealed her letter or that she knew Juri was a vulk, and Mrs. Doubek never mentioned it either.

Even after all this time, a slight ache rolled through her. She still missed him. Triska placed a hand on her chest. Through the thick wool sweater, she could feel the necklace she always wore around her neck, with the ring he’d given her resting above her heart. Silly, really, to keep it for so long, but she’d come to think it brought good luck. Sometimes it grew … warm. Like right now, it flared as if it contained an inner heat.

The pull along her skin, beckoning her closer to the water, lessened, and she took a deep breath. She relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Turning to Chessa, she said, “Let’s go make that cider. Maybe I’ll even buy something in your shop.”

Chessa grinned. “All right! Some suds and a sale, my favorite combination.”

The two of them wound their way down the beach toward the boardwalk.

4

Juri stared down at the waves lapping the shore of the cove in soft slaps, darting to the sand and retreating as quickly as possible, as if they didn’t want to linger on the beach. Night fell, and in the thick fog, the water appeared only in shadow as a rolling, flexing muscle, and the boardwalk was barely visible a short stretch down the beach.

He stood on a slight slope of dune where the forest began with its scrubby, short trees coated in blueish moss—the trees that best withstood the sand and the wind. Ryba. A ripple of peace washed over him with its familiar twinge of pain.

Needles on the ground crunched as Kyril joined him, his stride short as if he were about to leap into an attack at any moment. His usual way of walking. “I checked the high dunes. The escarpment looks like it broke off recently, and all the caves there are buried. The necros aren’t there.” They’d raced up the coast from Coromesto over the past two days, arriving in Ryba this morning. A third pack member, Finn, had remained on the outskirts of Coromesto while they’d gone down to the sewers, keeping watch for more necromancers. He’d left to go back to the pack to give Hans a report on what they’d seen, leaving the pursuit of the necromancers to him and Kyril. So far, they’d scoured the forest rimming Ryba.

Kyril pointed toward the five lumpy figures surrounded by firewood. “What the uit are those?”

“Scarecrows. The town is about to burn them and kick off the Autumn Festival. We give the water spirits their due for another safe year at sea. And there’s an old obol stamped with the Ryba crest inside one of them. Tomorrow, after the ashes are cool, the kids will try to find it. He or she becomes king for the day. I was king once, of course.” He rubbed his stomach. “I ate so much I couldn't move.”

Kyril shrugged. “You do that whenever you get the chance.”

Juri grinned. “I was a lot smaller back then, yet with a vulk-sized appetite. I’m surprised my stomach didn’t burst.”

“It took the entire clan to feed me when I was growing up.” Kyril shot him a sideways glance. “I don’t know how your mother did it alone for all those years.”

Juri’s grin faded. Every other vulk in the pack had grown up in wolfwalker clans where the entire village helped prepare them for vulk life. Not him, though. He’d spent the first ten years of his life unaware he was a vulk. Unaware his life would keep him from making Ryba his home ever again because once a vulk took his permanent form, it was forbidden to return home.

Kyril stretched. “Well, all those times you’ve made me come with you to tromp through these woods, freezing my balls off, is finally going to pay off. We know this area better than anyone. The necros can’t hide.”

Juri chuffed. “You’re such a delicate flower. And no one cares about your balls.”

Kyril snarled. “Some females do.”

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