White Wolf: Steward's World, #2

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Copyright © 2024 Michelle L. Levigne

ISBN 13: 978-1-961129-70-2 

Published in the United States of America

Publication Date: August 1, 2024

Cover Art © Copyright 2024 Ye Olde Dragon Books

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Foreword

Like Plantwise before it, White Wolf is a massive revision of a previously published novel, with earlier changes in characters and storyline causing even more changes in this book, like a ripple effect from a rather sizable stone thrown into a pond.

In the original novel, The Wolf That Was, Fiera was a spoiled brat princess named Sorcha, who was the perfect bride for evil King Fallon (now known as Maddix). When they married, the world held its breath, anticipating a lot of trouble when those two teamed up. Originally, they were both conflicted and miserable, attracted to each other, and positive that the moment Sorcha gave Fallon his longed-for heir, one of them would kill the other. Either he would kill her and use their son to try to take over her father’s kingdom, or she would kill him and rule Stonemount through their son. A lot of their scheming and working their way into an uneasy alliance and understanding, of course, had to be cut out of this book. Not that those two deserved even a hint of possible happiness before they got their comeuppance, but I wanted the happily-ever-after reserved for my heroine, Taran, and her man-wolf companion, Bard.

Besides, I certainly couldn’t let good Princess Fiera marry the evil king, could I? She was nothing like snotty Princess Sorcha at the end of Plantwise, and she proves herself wise and brave and devoted to Yeshen’s service in this story, even though she isn’t a main character.

Instead, Fiera knows when she is forced by political expediency to go to Stonemount that she is on a dangerous mission, a diplomatic dance that could end in disaster. For the sake of an innocent life, she is willing to go into the enemy’s den.

In The Wolf That Was, Princess Sorcha ends up very badly off, with a curse put on her as punishment for all her schemes and lies. What’s funny is that I did write her story, a sequel to The Wolf That Was, to have her forcibly reformed. That book was originally accepted by the publisher at the time, but just as the book was to go into edits, my rights were returned to me. The publisher later closed its doors, returning all the books in the series, which led to revisions and creating this new series, Steward’s World. What could I do with a perfectly good book? I didn’t want to waste all that work and all the fun I had fracturing fairytales. Massive rewrites, again, ending up with a totally new fantasy series. Maybe you’ve read the book, or at least seen it? It’s now called The Kindness Curse, Book 1 of Magic to Spare. Book 2, Majjian Springs, released earlier this year. I had a lot of fun fracturing fairytales to give my reformed princess lots of challenges and puzzles to solve.

There is also more to Taran and Bard’s story in this story, more growth and introspection, and a strong hint of future books in the series.

I discovered that the children introduced in this book need to have their story told. Ivy needs to do some growing up and learning how to control her massive magical heritage. Maxin needs to learn some important lessons to become the strong, brave, wise king who can reverse all the damage his father did to their kingdom. And Princess Violet deserves a chance to shine and find some happily-ever-after of her own.

What’s going to happen as these three children grow up?

I’m still brainstorming as this book goes to press, but I hope you’re interested enough to check back in from time to time, to my blog and website, and the Ye Olde Dragon’s Library storytelling podcast, to find out! Look for Violet and Ivy (tentative title) late in 2025.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter One

Taran was the daughter of Eyrian, a wise woman who tended the five villages along the river flowing through the Aerbach Valley in the Swordtop Mountains of Brentonwald.

At the full moon, in the late fall after she turned sixteen, Taran came home from a night roaming with the wolves and found her mother’s cottage filled with the bitter smell of anger. When she looked for Eyrian, she wasn’t in her bed or sitting by the fire or working in her stillroom, brewing another healing tonic against the winter coughs and sweats. Taran shuddered at the prickling of hairs rising on her arms and the back of her neck in silent warning of trouble. She paused to grip the silver amulet she had worn since infancy, whispered a prayer for Yeshen’s protection, and slipped outside again to look for her mother.

She followed the scent trail that drifted on the wind. The sour metal smell of angry male stranger mixed with the rancid stink of repressed magic made her head throb. She found Eyrian standing by the spring pool that provided their water and allowed her to speak with other Gifted folk who served Yeshen with magic in many kingdoms.

A stranger dressed all in black and purple, his hood pulled low over his face, stood on the other side of the pool. Taran wished she could call the wolves, her friends, to come protect her mother. She had no magic, except the knife-sharp senses and grace that let her slip through the forest like a shadow. She could smell magic, though, and this man stank of it. Powerful and twisted and sour. He was an enchanter, full of magic born into him, but he had submitted and enslaved his power to evil.

The stink of Durmad was all over him, like a sickly-sweet fog of corruption. Taran knew the smell from others who had come against her mother over the years, thinking to steal her magic gifts or frighten her into serving Durmad. Or when Eyrian helped to free the minds of those who had been tricked into serving Durmad and found out almost too late the bitter truth behind his promises and rewards.

Taran fought not to run away when the stink seemed to reach for her, like the prickly poisoned tendrils of a creeper vine. She prayed silently to Yeshen and moved out of the reach of those invisible tentacles.

If you do not give it to me, the stranger said, his voice a cruel, cold rumble, I will take your child and tear her in two to learn your secret.

Doing that will hide the secret forever, and seal Yeshen’s curse on you, Eyrian said, her voice a weary sigh. You come here in arrogance and the false promises of Durmad. He has no power here.

He has power because I give him a foothold, and I will be rewarded when he overcomes the last barrier and takes all this land. The enchanter let out a low rumble of laughter. Just imagine how rich you will be with power, when the springs of magic flow free and wild, instead of guided and reined in, and all those who please Durmad can drink freely.

I can imagine, and I stand with Steward to keep those springs not just restrained, but hidden from rebellious, cruel children like you.

Fool! He stepped forward.

A flash of heat and light made him stagger backward two steps. A brief, scorched smell oozed through the air.

In the ancient writings, fools weren’t silly, childish souls, but those who rebelled and made selfish, cruel choices. I am Yeshen’s servant.

Slave.

Gladly. Eyrian smiled.

The child Durmad requires has been born. Her parents foolishly think they are free to come and go. They will learn the truth quickly enough. You should change your allegiance before you have to learn the same bitter lesson. Are you so foolish as to think your child is the defense and the receptacle for magic that was promised?

I think no such thing. You are the one who declared her such, when she is my gift and my reward, and dedicated to Yeshen’s service. That is more than enough.

Durmad’s chosen child is a weapon, not a tool. The enchanter raised his hands, and again, that sensation of heat. Purple-black sparks danced on his fingertips. He hissed and took another step backward. Give me the key, the binding spell, and my warriors will spare you when Durmad sets them loose across the land.

No. Never. Be you gone. This land is held for Yeshen’s service and in his power and authority I declare you a violation and abomination and cast you out. Eyrian raised her hands and sparks of magic glittered on her fingertips, blue and green and silver, swirling up in the air like dancing fireflies. The triangular amulet resting at the base of Taran’s throat warmed, the enchanted silver reacting to the touch of magic in the air. Taran, she said, her voice touching her daughter’s soul.

I’m here. I’m ready. Taran rested her hand on the long knife at her belt.

No. This is not your battle. Return to our cottage. Now. Blue and silver sparks spun through the air to swirl around Taran’s head and nip at her nose and chin, stopping the girl from protesting or stepping out of hiding.

A growl rumbled silently in Taran’s throat, but she obeyed and ran home, as light on her feet as the wolves who sang to her at moonrise. Her ears strained for the slightest sound, her muscles ached to turn back, to ensure the enchanter did not prove stronger than Eyrian and attack her with corrupted magic.

Her fears were proven groundless. Eyrian triumphed and returned to their cottage a short time later, serene and untouched. The moon had barely descended any further in the sky.

What did he want? Taran asked, when Eyrian settled in front of the fire with a mug of water sprinkled with tonic herbs, and still said nothing.

He wanted what he has always wanted, to turn magic from healing to profit. There was a time, long ago, when all magic-users, no matter their level of strength, no matter their expertise, were bound to the land. They served the land, protected the people, and lived to heal, guide and guard. They lived for knowledge and for life. They were bound to the land that they tamed, in Yeshen’s service and to protect the people who came into their territories to settle. Durmad scoffed at Yeshen’s laws and declared the sensible things to be foolish. Despite his defeat at the hands of Steward, in Yeshen’s power, Durmad’s teachings still trickle through the barrier of the Cascade Mountains and infect those who believe their inborn magic makes them better than all other people. More powerful and wiser than kings. Some magic wielders believe their magic makes them free of Yeshen, and declare they are not answerable to anyone. Not Steward. Not Yeshen. Such foolish arrogance makes them vain and cruel.

But what did he want? Taran settled at her mother’s feet and rested one hand on Eyrian’s knee. She tried to read the answer in her deep, silver eyes. He thinks he will find his answers in me. What is it? Did you hide magic in my amulet? She tugged on the triangle of silver and the magic buzzed against her fingertips like lazy bees.

"No, there is no magic hidden there. It solely exists to keep you whole and safe."

Solely? Taran snorted and earned a weary smile from her. What did he want?

I will not speak of it. Some wizards can reach into others’ domains and catch the sound of our words. Eyrian rested her hand on Taran’s head. What was done for the sake of life and love, he would turn to profit and power. I will not give it to him, even if it cost me my life.

Three months later, when the winter storms slashed the mountain valleys with razors of ice, Taran remembered her mother’s words.

Lagan, headman of Sweetdeep, the largest of the five villages, came to Eyrian with word that a stranger stalked through the village, flinging fire at thatched roofs and muttering curses so that the cattle fought to break free of their shelters. In the face of magic, the villagers turned to Eyrian.

Taran rarely felt the cold, but a shiver ran up her back when Lagan said the stranger hid inside a cloak of deep purple like clotted blood. Eyrian calmly continued packing her supplies.

The stranger had moved on when Eyrian and Taran followed Lagan back to Sweetdeep. Taran found his tracks, nearly obliterated by blowing snow. The smell of anger and sour magic bit at her nose and she rocked back on her heels, wishing she hadn’t bent to catch his scent.

It’s him, she said, glancing back over her shoulder at her mother.

Eyrian held still for ten long heartbeats, then the silver of her healing magic filled her eyes and spilled out, enfolding her so the whipping winds didn’t stir her pale green cloak or tug on one white strand of her hip-length hair.

Mother? Taran choked on the cold that filled her. She had never before seen Eyrian wrap herself in magic so completely. Not even when the black vomit ran through three of their five villages had Eyrian needed to call up her magic to such an extreme.

Taran, gather all the villagers and take them to the Whispering Caves.

We can’t go in there! Lagan blurted, fear crackling in his voice.

My daughter’s presence will protect you and drive back the magic hiding in the shadows. You will be safe. I do promise on my soul and my service to Yeshen. Eyrian’s smile stretched, thin and grim. Have I ever lied to you or failed you, in all my years of service?

No, he grumbled, and glanced at Taran, doubt in his eyes, before turning back to Eyrian and shaking his head. You have always given us your best wisdom and strength. Even when it cost you too much.

Taran held still, despite the shuddering, the brief slash of hot anger in her chest. Her father had paid the steep price of Eyrian’s devotion and loyalty. He had been traveling, alone, when bandits attacked him.

You will be safe there. I do swear. If everyone obeys my instructions. Lagan, you and all the headmen must join the talismans I gave you, once everyone is inside. The magic will hide you. Do not come out until the battle is finished. Eyrian turned and strode off in the nearly invisible tracks of the angry enchanter.

How will we know when the battle is over? Taran dug her booted feet into the snow, wanting to follow her mother, knowing she had to obey.

The villagers would likely stay at the pillars carved with warning symbols and freeze to death in the oncoming storm, if Taran wasn’t there to guide them into Whispering Caves. The tales of strange beasts and voices out of the darkness and echoes from the past were woven by the wise women who had served the villages for more than a dozen generations, to protect those caves and what they held. The fearful imaginations of the villagers and the stories they wove around the fires on stormy nights added to that protection. Eyrian stored herbs and medicines there, and the record books of all the wise women of the five villages.

I will come for you when the battle is done, Eyrian called back without pausing. And if I don’t—

You will, she insisted.

Always remember that I love you, my child. You are my treasure, my joy, and my greatest triumph.

Mother. Taran’s feet barely touched the ground as she ran to Eyrian and threw her arms around her. Why can’t you hide until he tires of looking and goes away?

There is a time to run from your enemies, my dearest, and a time when the only choice is to fight. There is a time when the wisest choice is to face death, because the alternative is so much more dreadful. Eyrian gently gripped Taran by her shoulders and moved her back so they stared into each other’s eyes, green-gray meeting silver. She stroked her long fingers through her daughter’s tangled, silver-white ringlets, and smiled sadly, serenely. There is so much more than this world that we know. Remember that, my child. Now, you are responsible for the villages.

I have no magic, Taran protested.

"No, my darling, you are magic, through and through. Eyrian kissed her forehead, embraced her tight and hard for one brief heartbeat, and released her. My duty is now yours." She turned and strode away into the storm.

Taran gritted her teeth when swirls of snow blinded her, so she didn’t see Eyrian before she entered the shadows of the trees.

All the villagers knew Taran and didn’t hesitate when she gave them orders in her mother’s name. The night grew thicker, blacker, and the snow piled up nearly to her knees before she knew every villager, every dog and cat, was safely inside Whispering Caves. And all their cattle, sheep, goats, chickens and horses safely inside several adjoining caves, sleeping under one of her mother’s many defensive spells.

She double-checked, by scent, and counted every face. Then she nodded to Lagan and the other four headmen. They stood in the mouth of the cave with the storm yanking on their cloaks and held out their talismans. Blue and silver sparks of magic burst through the cave when the five pieces touched, merged, and solidified into one piece. When the headmen let go, the talisman hung in the air, spinning slowly and blocking the opening.

Taran went to her knees, shoulders hunched, as she felt the web of magic woven into the walls and ceiling of the caves thicken and grow into one unbroken sheet. All the villagers and their goods were now enclosed in a bag of magic that no one but its weaver could find.

She didn’t like being enclosed. The sound of the wind couldn’t penetrate. A thick, muffled feeling wrapped around everything. The villagers took comfort from it. Taran heard their voices sweeten and soften, and the tightness in the air relaxed. She stayed in the blocked mouth of the cave, with the magic buzzing against the soles of her feet and her fingertips and tingling in her scalp. Everyone else could relax and talk and laugh and let their children run loose to play games. She had to keep watch.

Eyrian would feel that the magic woven into the caves had awakened and everyone under her charge was safe now. Did that help her, make it easier to focus everything into the battle with the enchanter?

Blessed Yeshen, Taran whispered. Protect her. Strengthen her. Give her victory.

The world turned upside down. All her senses blanked, tossing Taran into an aching abyss. For a moment, she was a toddler again, dying of a fever that melted the flesh from her bones. Her mother’s face hung far above her in the blackness of delirium. Eyrian’s face glistened with tears as she begged Yeshen for her child’s life.

Taran choked on a howl of pain when it felt as if claws of magic tried to separate her skin from her flesh from her bones. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear or speak. The magic around her strained and twisted, searing the soles of her feet, stabbing her fingertips and scorching the roots of her hair. Her gorge rose in agony that paralyzed her, numbed her senses, and sucked the marrow from her bones.

She blinked, and her senses slammed back to normal, like the bolt of a lock clicking home. Taran slumped, barely managing to brace herself with her arms before her face hit the cave floor. Around her, the villagers talked and laughed and played. The five headmen chatted about spring planting, and the winter fevers and chills.

Silently, Taran mourned, her heart bruised and stumbling in her chest. She closed her eyes and saw the place where Eyrian’s body lay, curled up in the snow as if asleep, all the blue sparks and shimmers of her magic evaporating in the swirling snow and ice. The enchanter stood over her, his bloody purple cloak whipping in the storm gales. He shouted fury, his fists raised to the uncaring skies as Eyrian’s magic and all her gathered wisdom, generations of practice and learning and service, slipped through his fingers. They evaded his grasp and pulled away streamers of bloody purple magic wherever the mist touched him.

Taran concentrated on his enraged face, bared to the storm. She etched his iron-gray beard and gray eyes and his broken nose, blunt cheekbones, and the ruby stud in his left earlobe, into her memory. She knew his scent and now she knew his face. She had no magic of her own, though she was descended from a long line of wise women, but she swore someday she would gather the strength, the magic, the allies necessary, and she would claim justice for her mother.

No, be honest, she scolded herself. Not justice, but revenge.

THE ENEMY’S NAME, TARAN learned when King Egis’s messengers made their thrice-yearly survey of the land that following spring, was Nueroch. The messenger who came to the five river villages wasn’t a gossipy sort of man, but rather someone who liked to share good news. The news someone so cruel and arrogant had met his comeuppance was good. Nueroch had closed off the valleys around his mountain fortress. No one could get in to ask for help that he only granted after demanding jewels and gold, furs and exotic foodstuffs. Magic-users who were friends to King Egis investigated, tested Nueroch’s magic, and declared it had been seriously damaged. He was sleeping and recovering.

Lagan and the other headmen said nothing of the battle between Eyrian and Nueroch, but they turned to Taran as one person, questions in their eyes. The messenger wasn’t a stupid man. The king of Brentonwald didn’t send stupid men to communicate with the far-flung, outlying territories and their villages. He turned to Taran, who sat in front of the well in the village square in her mother’s place and gave her a bow of respect. He had been nothing but respectful from the moment the headmen and Taran met him in the village square of Shadesong, though he had been startled to see her in Eyrian’s place.

Do you know what happened, Wise Woman?

You did not ask why my mother is not here to send greetings to the king. Taran clasped her hands tightly in her lap, hiding them under the heather-brown shawl Eyrian always wore to such meetings. She died in a battle of magic this past winter, with an evil wizard who matches your description of Nueroch.

Yeshen rot his soul, the messenger snarled, and spewed a string of foul words. The hairs stood up on the back of Taran’s neck, but she smiled because this man honored her mother, and her death angered him. Be sure, the king will express his displeasure to Nueroch. Our king values all magic wielders through Brentonwald, no matter their gifts.

Let the king know that we are well cared for in Taran, Eyrian’s daughter, Lagan said.

Taran maintained a calm mask, though inside she wanted