Lady of the Haven (Empire Princess Book 1) Read online

  Lady of the Haven

  Graham Diamond

  Copyright © Graham Diamond 2007

  The right of Graham Diamond to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2007 by Booksurge

  This edition published in 2015 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For Rochelle and Leslie, in whose eyes I first saw Stacy come alive.

  For his knowledge of the sea and ships, John G. Leinung;

  for their helpful assistance in the study of wolves, The New York Times Reference Library;

  for being my catalyst, George Woods.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter One

  From the beginning there was the forest, a primeval expanse sprawling across endless scapes. Complex and mystifying, alluring and compelling, it has been spoken of endlessly in folklore and fable — sometimes darkly, sometimes sweetly, but always with awe and respect for as long as men have known it. Mighty nations come and go, great empires rise and fall — but the forest always remains. And to the forest the busy schemes of men last no longer than the blink of a never-sleeping eye through the long passage of time. Some claim the forest is like the sea, receding with the tides only to return to begin the endless cycle once again when the proper time has come.

  And Fara, the Fate in the heavens that watches over the forest, makes certain that this is so. The forest Dwellers are her children, and Fara must always protect them.

  Of all the Dwellers perhaps none understands the Great Forest better than the wolves. None has been more favored by Fara than they; none has been given more cunning or intelligence, save, of course, for men, whom Fara does not guide or protect. Even as they know the wood that surrounds them, the wolves know the sun and they know the moon, for these, too, are Fara’s agents. There are few secrets in the forest, and all Dwellers understand that the wolf is king, even as the lion is king in the jungle. Wolf lore is filled with many wondrous sagas and tales that have been repeated down through countless generations from one storyteller to the next. Their culture and history abound with these tales — tales that they are happy and more than eager to pass on to those who will take the time to listen. And the wolf who remembers and recounts them, well, he is a wise wolf, indeed. Such a wolf is Cicero, a brave and noble lord of his pack. His stories recount many adventures, not only of wolves but also of other Dwellers, and even of men. Yes, even of us, for the wolves know us well, better perhaps than we even know ourselves.

  The tale you are about to read was told to me by Cicero over many long and sleepless nights. It tells of wolves, it tells of men, but most of all it tells of a young woman and the many adventures that befell her in the land in which she lived. Cicero was part of her tale, so in many ways it is his tale as well. It is a story of a far different time and place, a place that for now can only be reached by imagination. But do not be misled; the tale is real. And if you believe, then Fara will take the mist from your eyes, and you will know and understand.

  And so I begin, putting words to paper, telling it to you exactly as Cicero told it to me, not so very long ago.

  Chapter Two

  The first hints of autumn were in the air. Bright leaves of gold and red from the holly and maple trees peppered the damp earth as a soft, chill breeze whistled through the rushes of the meadow. The sun, a flaming ball of red fire, dipped below the western horizon, leaving a lingering glow in a sky fading into azure and purple. All across the hills flowers closed their petals and bowed their long stems to the lengthening shadows of the night. High in the trees the owls began to stir, and all around fireflies danced in ritual. Great lumbering bullfrogs hopped to the banks of the ponds, peered meekly about and began to croak. And from some distant unseen point in the wood a lonely jackal wailed his mournful cry at the moon.

  At the crest of the highest hill in the meadow stood an aging gray-furred wolf, eyes searching the thicket below. He was a large animal, with long pointed ears and dark slanted eyes that dimly glowed in the dark. His snout was long, and his jaws were still powerful despite his advancing years. Sharp fangs, slightly curved, protruded from his upper lip. Lightly he stepped through the thick grass, ever keeping his gaze on the shadows below. Suddenly he stopped and growled. At the foot of the hill, nestled beneath the hovering branches of a tall oak, he saw her — a girl. A child of men. She was lying peacefully, with her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Her head rested against the trunk of the oak, her legs stretched across the curving roots.

  The wolf walked quietly down to the bottom and approached cautiously. She was asleep, completely unaware of his presence. The wolf lowered his snout and nuzzled it gently against her face. The girl began to stir; she opened her eyes — dark eyes, almond-shaped and bright, that crinkled at the corners as she smiled. Long black hair fell softly over her shoulders, cutting an oblique line against darkly tanned skin. Her mouth was small, her lips thin, her cheekbones high. A royal sign, the wolves claimed. The girl wiped the sleep from her eyes and looked about at the encroaching darkness.

  “You promised to be back before night,” growled the wolf.

  The girl sat up, brushed a scattering of leaves from her jacket, then rubbed gently behind the wolf’s ears. “I’m sorry, Hector,” she apologized. “But the afternoon sun was so warm, and I only intended to rest for a little while.”

  The wolf growled again. It could be dangerous to be alone in the forest at night. She should know better. But then again, she did know better: for this was no mere girl come from the Valley to the forest — this was a child who had spent as much time in the wood as she had among her own. He knew she could take care of herself as well as any Dweller. Still, she was under his protection, and Hector knew he must treat her no differently than any other huntress from his pack who had disobeyed the rules. “We must get back to the hollow,” he snarled gruffly.

  Stacy nodded. She got up slowly and flexed her arms. The forest was beautiful at this time of year, she thought. The trees were awash in swirls of rich color, the grass tall and damp and glistening from the soft autumn showers. It had been good, this past summer with Hector’s pack; and the sudden realization that tomorrow she would have to leave made her sad. She would miss them, miss them all. Especially Hector. “Don’t be angry with me, Hector,” she said as the wolf led her along the escarpment of the hill. Rows of berry bushes hugged on either side. Stacy paused and touched lightly at a small bunch hanging down between several overgrown leaves. “I wanted to have this last day to myself,” she said with a sigh. “That’s why I went off alone.”

  H
ector glanced up at her soft eyes and wagged his bushy tail slowly from side to side. “I understand,” he said quietly. “Parting is always difficult.”

  Stacy leaned over and kissed him lightly on the forehead. Hector turned away, knowing she could not stay. Stacy was a child of two worlds: that of men and that of the forest. And each world carried its own responsibilities. It was only right that she return home, just as it was right that rain should follow the sun.

  They crested the hill and walked down between the sycamores and over the moss field that bordered the brier patches. Neither spoke. They both had so much they wanted to say, yet neither could find the right words.

  Dressed as she was in a simple cotton tunic and light woolen jacket, many would have taken her to be but a simple country girl. In truth Stacy was far from that. She was of high and noble birth, a lady, a lady of the Haven. At home she could have commanded royal treatment, with servants and suitors to do her bidding. But Stacy chose not to live that kind of life. She loved the forest and its Dwellers and sought only to be among them. She needed to be free, to live without the restraints that her family’s titles imposed upon her.

  Many people said Stacy was just like her father had been in his own youth — restless, never content unless he was far from the Valley, seeking some new mystery or exciting adventure. And Stacy was proud of the comparison. If she could lead the same life that Nigel had once led, then she would be more than content. When teased about the absurdity of a woman doing the same things as a man, she would be quick to show her temper. Standing tall and proud, head thrown back, eyes flashing, she would show her breeding.

  It had been evident that Stacy was a leader from her earliest days when she first was brought to live among the wolves. Most children would have cringed and cried at the sight of the barking cubs — but not Stacy. She had demonstrated time and again her fight and her zeal and her spirit. And it had not taken long for the wolves to respect it. Often cubs ran whimpering back to their mothers, bruised at the hands of this brazen daughter of men.

  At the foot of the ridge that led down to the meadow below, Hector paused. A small flock of sparrows fluttered above his head. They were small birds, and usually the sight of wolves would have made them fly away in fear. But Hector was no enemy, they knew. Nor was the girl who walked beside him. In this part of the forest all birds knew Stacy, and they greeted her now with chirps and songs. Stacy laughed and waved as the sparrows made one last swoop just above her head before they glided up past the treetops and far into the sky. Hector watched all this and smiled. Few from the Valley, men or women, seemed to be so beloved by the Dwellers as was Stacy. She was special. And it would be a sad day if the forest were to lose her.

  Again without speaking the two inched their way to the sunken hollow in the meadow. Stacy moved softly over the damp grass and bare soil, never so much as snapping a twig or turning a pebble. She moved with grace and ease, as the wolves had taught her long ago. Like Aleya, the wind, as she sighs and breathes through the leaves; like Aki, the dragonfly, whose presence is rarely known until after her sting has been felt.

  Hector was proud of Stacy; in many ways he was prouder of her than of his own grandchildren. For as children of Fara all these things were expected of them. But Stacy was of men, youngest cub of his man-friend Nigel. When Nigel had first brought her to the forest, Hector had fallen in love with the child at once. But he had never shown his favor. No, not a single time. If the girl were to learn the ways of the Dwellers, then she must act as one. And if that meant bruises and pain, then so be it. There was no other way.

  But Stacy had learned her lessons well. Hector glanced at the silver dagger strapped tightly around her waist, her father’s dagger, given to her some years before. And Hector was certain that Stacy could use it if necessary. Sly as a cat, agile as a hunter, swift as a doe — all this, plus the cunning of men. Indeed she was a child of two worlds. And hence her wolf name: Khalea, the bridge between the moon and sun.

  The hill tapered softly, evening out onto a narrow belt of thick grass surrounded by tall columns of hazel and chestnut trees. At the edge of the hollow there ran a small stream, twisting and winding along the edge of the clearing. Beside the stream, several dozen female wolves were tidying up their infant young, licking at their coats and waiting for the return of the hunters. Some of the older cubs were tumbling and rolling in the grass and occasionally chasing each other up the escarpment of the brown hill at the end of the meadow.

  Now, from all around, wolves began to appear beside the stream. Some were quite old and infirm and had to hobble down from their resting places; others came bounding from behind the ridges and trees, tongues hanging low, tails wagging in anxious anticipation.

  “Are you hungry, Khalea?” asked Hector as they joined the procession to the stream.

  Stacy felt her stomach growl. “Starving,” she replied happily. “And I think I smell fresh meat on Aleya’s breath?’

  Hector grinned. There was a scent of meat on the wind. “And how long before the hunters return?” he asked.

  Stacy sniffed at the breezes and furrowed her brow. The scent was getting stronger with each moment. She squinted her eyes and peered out at the top of the highest hill. There was a tall oak tree, solid and firm, with huge branches encompassing the top like loving arms. “They come now,” she said, pointing in a sweeping gesture.

  And so it was. Barely a moment later, twelve fierce-looking wolves appeared darkly at the zenith. They walked slowly, eyes glowing. Behind them came another twelve wolves, younger ones. New hunters. And they were dragging behind them the carcasses of two fine young bucks, throats bloody, eyes glazed in death but still wide with terror.

  The hunters turned the carcasses over and rolled them down the hill. Cubs leaped up from everywhere and bounded to greet them, barking and snapping at the glassy eyes of the fallen prey. Pleased at the eagerness of the cubs, the hunters stood back and smiled. These cubs would one day be fine hunters themselves.

  Stacy knelt beside the stream and washed her hands and face while Hector and two of the other elders instructed on the carving of bucks and apportioned the meat. The old and sick received the first pieces, then the cubs and females. Once everyone had ample food, the rest was apportioned to the hunters. Among the wolves no one goes hungry.

  A stunning dark-furred female scurried toward Stacy carrying a large chunk of blood-dripping meat between her teeth. She lowered her head as she approached the girl and stretched out her front paws. Stacy reached out and took the meat gratefully. “Thank you, Dedra,” she said.

  The female smiled, then turned and raced away. Stacy walked to the shade of a hazel tree and sat down with her back against the trunk, legs dangling over the burrowing roots. She nibbled slowly at the raw meat, finding that she really had no appetite after all. Living with wolves makes one acquire a taste for raw meat, but with her departure for home so close at hand, it was of a fine, hot meal that she dreamed. And how long had it been?

  It was evening now. The moon, bright and full, hung low behind the trees as the pack sat quietly and ate. Stacy watched the wolves lick their lips and paws and gnaw at assorted bones. Some of the wolves rolled over contentedly, tails beating gently against the grass. Cubs huddled close to their mothers; young hunters and their mates strolled to their places along the sides of the hills. The night was pleasant enough, but there was a nip in the air. Stacy leaned back and rubbed at her arms. She had spent the entire summer without once having to make a fire for warmth, and now, on her last night with the pack, she was not about to start. It was not that the wolves would be frightened or even complain about the fire, but rather that she tried not to be different than they were, though they had fine furry pelts to keep them warm, and she had only a tunic and jacket.

  “Are you cold, Khalea?”

  Stacy glanced sideways and smiled as Hector slumped down beside her. She ran her fingers through the thick, bristly fur. By Fara, it felt warm, she thought.

  Hector loo
ked deeply into her eyes and searched her face. Somehow, thought Stacy, he seemed to know everything she was thinking. Like now, keeping her warm with his body.

  They sat in silence for a while, Hector closing his eyes, Stacy staring up at Balaka, the stars. After some time, Hector growled. “We’ll miss you this winter,” he said sorrowfully.

  Stacy sighed. “And I’ll miss all of you. You know I will.”

  “If the snows are not heavy, will you visit with us for a day?”

  The girl nodded and cleared a growing lump in her throat. “Of course. The first chance I get...”

  Hector’s eyes brightened. “And ask Nigel to come, also,” he added. “It’s been too long since we last saw each other”

  Stacy returned his gaze. “Hector, why not come home with me? Tomorrow — we can leave the forest together. Spend the winter in the Valley. You know it will be much warmer there for you. Your illness...

  Hector flinched and drew back slightly. “These old bones are far too weary to make the journey,” he said sadly. “Besides, there is so much to do here, preparing for winter, seeking better shelter for the pack. No, there is too much to do. I am needed here.”

  Stacy forced a weak smile. Hector still refused to talk about his growing illness. But she saw it plain enough, as did the hunters. She often had cried when she heard him cough and moan in the middle of night. “Aleya soon will blow cold,” observed Stacy, “and who will look after you in the night when you shiver?”

  Hector stared for a long moment at the dazzling stars. “Fara will care for me,” he noted softly, sagely. “As she always does. And if she should call, I’ll be ready.”

  Stacy turned her head to the side and avoided his fatalistic look. On this last night she wanted to hear nothing of this sadness because it would make leaving all the harder.

  “You are upset, Khalea. I see it in your face.”