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Tis not so well written (how could it be? I wrote it when I was 16 and I rushed through it =P), but I hope you enjoy it anyways.






Caitlin looked up from pulling up a bit of nasty weeds when she saw the weaver approaching. She straightened, and wiped her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. The wind tugged at her skirt and whipped her hair about as she waited for him. She knew he was visiting her because no one else lived in the near vicinity. She also knew he was a weaver because only new, mistaken weavers visited her.

He arrived somewhat out of breath and looking wonderingly about him. He had his maroon coat tied about his waist and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Finally, he spoke.

“You are the dyer, are you not?”

“I am honored that you came all this way from the village to visit me and my plants,” Caitlin said dryly, “but you are mistaken; I only grow the herbs. If you want dyes, visit Worthhouse in the village. He makes the dye from my herbs and sells it.”

“Oh,” he looked disturbed. “I came all this way,” he turned and motioned with long pale fingers to the long, narrow valley behind him, “and…” He sighed.

“Well,” said Caitlin with an air of finality and turned back to work. The weaver paused and reflected a moment.

“You are used to people like me coming,” he ran his hand through his sweaty dark-blond hair.

“Can’t deny it,” she tugged on the bricklebush, and did not look up at him.

“Why do you live so far from the village?”

“I do not belong with the villagers or with anyone,” she gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Oh, and can I ask why you do not make the dyes yourself? I mean that you go through all the trouble of growing these plants, but you do not even make the dyes.”

“Because when making dyes of some herbs requires boiling them in a pot over an open fire,” her voice drifted to a silence. She closed her eyes in agony, desperately hoping he would not pursue the subject. But already just the word “fire” was awakening unwanted memories.

Caitlin saw herself at seven years of age encountering a hunting party in the woods. They were clothed in green with quivers at their sides. They had all dismounted; one or two were looking after the horses while another knelt, attempting to start a fire. The rest of the party stood around watching, exchanging lively banter. They were surprised to see her, but not at all displeased. One of the young men came toward her and offered her some bread, which she took hungrily. Then he asked her if she could help them find firewood. “We are new here,” he had said laughingly. Caitlin promptly raced off to gather some leaving him behind, looking startled. When she returned with an armload of brush and twigs, they had their bonfire going and were sitting around it. At the sight of the fire, her face grew pale and her load of wood tumbled out of her arms. In the flames she saw her mother and father being burned at the stake two months ago. Caitlin screamed and ran as if the fire would swallow her as well.

The weaver cleared his throat; he found the long silence unnerving. But his voice still came out high and squeaky when he spoke.

“What color does this plant make?” he fingered the soft feathery leaves of a tall gray-green plant.

“Yellow,” Caitlin bit her lip. She wanted this villager to go away. A flood of annoyance and hatred filled her heart. “It is called crusader herb,” she continued blankly.

“Ah, I see. And this plant?”

“ Oh, that is Meadowsweet. Its roots dye black and its flowers make a yellow.”

“And this one?” the weaver was starting to get excited.

“Dyer’s greenweed. Its flowers make more yellow, but also green when mixed with woad.” Caitlin glared at his turned back.

“Are there any that are not yellow? Where I come from there is yellow every where. It is the only color the dyers can make.”

“Then here is St John’s wort. It yields a red dye but also a yellow dye.”

The weaver made no answer.

“Toad flax makes a brown, green, orange, or yellow dye.”

He pointed at another of her herbs.

“Dyer’s madder. The roots dye shades from red to purple.”

“No yellow!”

Caitlin heard the smile in his voice, but made no comment. “Here,” she thrust a basket of various plant parts into his arms. “You can help me carry these to the village.” She snipped one more stalk of woad and put it into another basket which she lifted to her shoulders. Then they walked down the heather covered hillside and into the green valley. Caitlin led the way while the weaver followed, holding his basket to the side so he could watch the ground. It was only a mile to the village and Caitlin knew the way well.

The village was small and squalid and would have been insignificant if not for the castle that lay in the valley over. Winterburrow might have been more well-known if the separating ridge had not been forested.

When Caitlin entered Winterburrow, the housewives slammed their windows and mothers hustled their children indoors. The street orphans and dilly-dallies, however, stayed and threw any handy rocks at her. Caitlin was not disturbed. She continued walking along the street with her head held high. Her companion tip-toed behind her and attempted to dodge the stones that were meant only for Caitlin. Finally they arrived at Worthhouse’s shop. They went in and Caitlin slammed the door behind them to discourage any bold person from following with their rocks. The shop sign creaked from the resulting impact.

Worthhouse stood in the middle of his shop, pointing out a sample color to a young mother. The woman saw Caitlin standing there and excused herself. She slunk past her and out the door.

“Come back later!” Worthhouse called to her before turning his attention to Caitlin. For a moment he stood there, his ruddy face beaming. The light streaming into the musty room from a large, diamond-paneled window shone on his greasy hair and spread a vast shadow behind his portly figure.

“Ah, Caitlin, and with more dyes,” he smiled—it was not a nice smile.

“I have brought woad, meadowsweet, sorrel, and weld.”

“Let me see, let me see.” He fingered the herbs. “Hmm. Two and twenty. How much is that…” He frowned while he calculated. “I’ll give you twenty-eight shillings for the lot.”

Caitlin bit her lip in dismay.

“Times are tough,” Worthhouse continued, “twenty-eight shillings is all I can give you.”

Which was a lie. He was wearing clothes made from new cloth and dyed dark blue and crimson as well. Business was good to him. The customer was evidence of that. But Worthhouse would not haggle and Caitlin needed the money.

“I will take it,” she decided.

“Good doing business with you,” he said, pulling out the roots and stalks and leaves from their baskets with both of his fat-fingered hands. He set them down in a large basket of his own. Then he straightened and reached into his drawstring purse. From its bulging sides and the difficultly Worthhouse had in getting the twenty-eight shillings Caitlin gathered that it was rather stuffed with coins. When he succeeded several other coins dropped out. Copper and silver half-crowns fell to the floor. There was no sound except the clank of metal on metal and metal on wood and Worthhouse’s labored breath as he hastily collected the run-away coins. Caitlin said nothing and neither did he. Caitlin took her money and her baskets and left the shop. The weaver remained behind.

Caitlin walked through the village warily, but once it was behind her, she ran back to her tiny hut on the heather-covered hill. She did not linger in her garden, but went inside. She dropped her shillings into a clay pot. The first one clanked against the bare clay and the others against the ones dropped before. There were only twenty-eight shillings in it. Then she went out to gather her chickens into their little henhouse. It was almost twilight and a cold wind picked up. It blew her skirts. It blew at the chickens so that they willingly returned to their pen and Caitlin did not have to chase them about in the heather.

One by one the stars started appear in the darkening sky. The wind chased away the dark grey clouds. The sky was swept clean and the entire arch of the heavens was indigo blue. Caitlin uneasily noted that the moon was almost full—perhaps tomorrow evening would be full moon. She hurried inside.

Caitlin awoke. She lay on prickly, musty-smelling straw in a small dungeon cell. No windows broke the monotony of the cold grey walls, but Caitlin knew that it was morning because she was no longer a wolf. She shivered. The blue dress that she still wore was thin and let out warmth. She wrapped its voluminous skirt about herself and huddled in a corner. The fetter on her foot clinked as she moved. Her sleeves, though elbow length, had long tails which she tied about over her tight under-sleeves. She lay there quietly, her head throbbing, intently watching the prison corridor through the barred door.

Then she heard voices. One was higher and the other slightly lower. They rose and fell like tides and Caitlin’s eyelids drooped and her head throbbed. Then the voices became louder or else came closer, and Caitlin could finally understand what they said.

“I am holding you responsible for this fiasco!” The first voice hissed.

“But, but milady! There is no way it could have entered but through the guards. So an impossible event occurs, why do you insist on blaming me?” The lower, hoarser voice protested.

“Is it impossible?” The first voice carried a inflection of skepticism.

“Surely—”

“Hush! The reason for our presence in this foul dungeon is to take a look at what those incompetent guards caught last night.”

“I do not see what difference that could make,” the second voice said sulkily.

“Silence! You will wake it up,” hissed the first, “I shall go and have a look at it.”

There was a rustling and Caitlin peered out from under her eye lashes and Sarah appeared beyond the wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling iron bars. She stood a moment, staring at Caitlin with a slight, knowing smile. Caitlin wanted to sit bolt upright at the sight of her; she was the last person Caitlin though to see peering at her through the bars. But of course. Now it made some sense. Sarah was no peasant. Her skin was too pale and her ways too dainty for that. And she did know how to dance when that was something no peasant girl knew. No, she was a lady, or a ladies maid.

“What? What is it?” The other person called softly.

“Come and see! She is sleeping, no fear,” Sarah said with a laugh.

Madam Heathercrow joined Sarah. She stared wide-eyed at Caitlin.

“But, it is a girl! Wait, I remember her! But,” Madam Heathercrow was clearly flabbergasted.

“Very interesting, is it not?,” Sarah's smile widened. Then her smile faded, “Hush!” She whispered, “There is someone coming. We must not be found here, talking to the prisoner.”

Caitlin watched the pair scurry away. “Very interesting,” she said.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Caitlin sat up. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and yawned as if she had been asleep. And so she had been, and why not? Sleep was the only useful thing to do in inescapable dungeons.

The causers of the echoing footsteps arrived at her prison door and stopped. One was the owner of this castle and the other was the Prince of Silvengarde. Despite his long, pleated green robe and matching hat, Duke Carlyle managed to look serious, deadly serious. The Prince of Silvengarde looked serious as well, but he also looked calm and assured.

“Who put you up to infiltrating my festive gathering?” The duke stormed. So that was what the nobility called their parties.

“No one! And I had no wish to be there last night,” Caitlin clenched her jaw.

“How can I believe you, a werewolf. You are lying through your teeth to save your miserable, worthless skin.”

“I did not wish to be there and I had no wish to harm anyone!” Caitlin almost shouted.

“Oh, that’s sounds very likely coming from a werewolf in your position,” he said sarcastically.

“Ask the guards. Did I attack them as they captured me? Did I?”

“You were not supposed to attack the guards now were you?” He answered quietly, dangerously.

“Just who do you think I am? Why would I want to kill anyone?”

“A werewolf. A werewolf who is poor and in desperate need of money because the villagers cheat you. A werewolf with a grudge against humans for killing her parents. A werewolf who might accept a handsome sum of money to kill an important person and thus thrust the entire human kingdom in turmoil. That is who I think you are!”

“Important person?” Caitlin could not answer his accusations. He must have had questions asked at the village. It was all true enough, except for her being paid to kill anyone.

“There is no need for you to play innocent, you know you were going to kill the heir to the throne, Prince of Silvengarde.”

Caitlin gasped. “Who would want to do that!” She cried. Murdering the Prince would be more like murdering a symbol. For the Prince was a symbol of all the kingdom was in the minds of his future people.

“The liege of Endgarde,” interjected the Prince of Silvengarde.

“Please,” Caitlin now addressed the Prince, “please, you must believe me when I say that I meant no harm, to you or anyone else.”

“Was it true what Duke Carlyle said about you?” The Prince queried.

Caitlin lowered her head, “Everything except that I was not hired by anyone to kill you,” she mumbled at first, but the latter part rose in volume. “Please, you must believe me.”

“Let her go free,” said the Prince simply.

“But—,” protested Duke Carlyle.

“Guard,” called the Prince, “Bring me the keys.”

Caitlin sat there wondering at the future ruler’s great trust in his subjects as the keys jangled in the lock. The barred door was thrown open. Caitlin arose from her corner stiffly and moved to the open door. The guard knelt and undid the chain on her foot.

“Follow me,” said the guard gruffly.


Caitlin blinked in the sunlight outside the castle. She was free. Her steps led her across the open field toward home. Caitlin laughed aloud. Her life did not have to be changed by this brief incident in her life. Indeed, the Prince had freed her; he had trusted that she meant him no harm. But he was one of the hated race of humans. As was Duke Carlyle, who was still not convinced of her innocence. Smiling, Caitlin shrugged and kicked a rock in her path. She did not need to prove herself. Duke Carlyle was convinced of her guilt. The Prince of Silvengarde need never regret setting her free, because she would never give cause for regret. She would do as she had always done.

She shivered as she walked along the wind-swept road. She still wore the pale blue gown. It was as yet undamaged; Caitlin’s wolf fur had protected it well from the rough walls and musty straw during her night’s stay in the castle dungeon. But Caitlin would have readily traded it away for warmer, less noticeable garb.

She paused. Deep muddy tracks and trampled grass led up the hill. The door of her cottage hung open. Caitlin ran up to it. There was mud on her floor as well, but also something gleamed. Caitlin stooped and picked it up. It was a gold band with a black stone that glittered and winked at Caitlin. It was cold and heavy in Caitlin's fingers.

“I have been awaiting you,” a voice spoke behind her. Caitlin whirled. Sarah stood, framed in the doorway. Caitlin almost sank in relief, but something in Sarah's voice made her stiffen. She regarded the red-haired girl closely. She no longer seemed like a poised, sweet maid; in her tone, and in her very posture lurked a sinister malevolence.

“What are you doing here?” Caitlin cried. Sarah stepped forward into the cottage. Her eyes narrowed in curiosity, and her lips parted to speak.

“Who are you?” Her voice was harsh. At first Caitlin stared at her. Then her brows knit and she stepped back shaking her head imperceptibly. Sarah stepped forward. A fierce look crossed her face. “Who are you? Why did you stop the ball? Why did the duke let you go? Who are you? What part in this do you have?” Her face was pale. “I must know!” Hatred overwhelmed her features.

Caitlin looked her in the eyes, “I know not of what you speak.” Her voice was calm and deliberate, yet it was laced with hardness as well. Sarah's eyes snapped. Then she regained her superior attitude. Smiling contemptuously, she stepped to the door.

“Guards!” She turned to face her opponent. Her eyes sparkling with malintent and her arched brows were not to be mistaken. “Now then,” she said, “Think your answers well.”

Caitlin paused. “I am only a simple country girl, and I had no intent to stop the ball.”

“Wrong. Try once more.”

Caitlin raised her head to speak in protest.

“Do not try to fool me. I know what you are; and you are not a simple country girl.”

“I am simply what I am. I am an orphan. I grow dying herbs for Master Worthhouse. What else can I say?”

“You are also a werewolf.”

Caitlin lowered her eyes. “What difference does that make?”

Sarah laughed, “You will see. Why did you stop the ball?”

“I never had that intent.”

Sarah smiled thinly. “Most likely. How do you explain, then, why the duke let you free?”

“I do not know.”

“Liar! You were in his pay, were you not?”

“No.”

“Liar, you serve the Prince. Admit it.”

“I admit no such thing! I do not know of what you speak!”

“There is no use hiding the truth, I have my answers. And after we purge these ideas from your heart, you may be of use.”

“I—” Sarah propelled her to the door. As Caitlin left her cottage, one of the guards raised his sword and hit her with its pommel. Caitlin's legs collapsed under her. In the moment before darkness over took her, the emblem on the guards leather jerkins—a black rampant lion on a red field—swirled before her eyes. A distant, yet close voice like Sarah's echoed in her head,

“Excellent.”

“Wake up, you two!” Water splashed and soaked Caitlin to the bone. She awoke instantly.

“Wha, what?” She gasped.

“Glad to see that one of you is awake to welcome our new guest here. I thought you would hate to miss a chance to be courteous.”

“No, it is not well to come here, so I shan’t pretend it is,” said Caitlin bitterly.

“Come now, no need to be rude.”

“Then I wish him a speedy escape,” she cried defiantly.

“As if that will ever happen,” the soldier chuckled. He forced the boy into the next cell over. The door clanged shut. “Have a good night, everybody!” He laughed as he left.

“It will happen!” the new prisoner muttered fiercely. He was a small boy, but he had a brave face. His eyes glittered dangerously in the moonlight. “It must happen!”

“Sorry that it will thwart you, lad, but we already almost escaped and the soldiers are so furious over it that they hang about all over.” The first prisoner was awake after all.

“Nothing can stop me...or my friends,” the latest addition to their group answered.

“Talk later, not now; now is for sleeping,” Caitlin interjected.

“All you do, so it seems, is sleep,” criticized the man.

“Sleep is the only thing worthwhile to do when in inescapable dungeons,” Caitlin yawned.

“That is what I’ve heard,” frowned the boy, “but this is not an inescapable prison, you’ll see.”

“Good night,” said Caitlin.

“Wait, what are your names?” the boy asked.

“I hail by guard, but to avoid confusion, you can call me Alan.”

“And what of your name, miss?”

Caitlin blinked solemnly.

“Ah,” he faltered.

“Good night,” she said again.

“Good night,” said Alan.

“Good night, Alan. Good night, Goodnight.”

“Good night, o nameless one.”


The morning came and peeped through the prison windows at the sleeping trio. Caitlin awoke first. She awakened easily now that she slept too much. She sat there quietly, as not to disturb the other two. She puzzled over what she had seen in the banquet hall. But still, it made little sense. She bounced up and walked about the cell. Bits of straw clung to her dress. She brushed them off. The dress was now worn and slightly dirty. It no longer smelled of lavender. All the time spent on rotting prison straw had taken care of that. It’s calming and restraining effect had either worn off or else had left with the lavender. Caitlin missed the lavender scent, but not the dress’s restraining effect on her.

“Please stop walking about in circles so, lass,” begged Alan, “You make me dizzy.”

Caitlin flopped down in the straw. The unnamed boy sat up and yawned.

“Good morning, Alan and Goodnight,” he grinned.

“Good morn, lad. Now it tis time for your name and your story.”

“My name is Robin,” the boy bowed from his sitting position, “ and the story of how I come to be here is neither long nor interesting.”

“On the contrary, Robin lad, anything you say we shall find vastly amusing else vastly terrifying; we have sat in boredom for three days. So we shall roar in laughter or gasp in terror.”

“Very well then. My friends and myself were traveling through this countryside when we became famished and I was elected to shot a rabbit or two. So I set off, and what do you know; I am captured by soldiers and dragged in here. See? It is as I told you; not amusing at all.”

Both Alan and Caitlin gasped.

“Oh, stop your act, you two! You couldn’t fool a blind mouse,” Robin said disgustedly. “Now I suspect why Goodnight prefers to pass her days in sleep. To avoid seeing the blind mice you practice deceiving. But I suppose Goodnight is naturally devious and so pretended that she could not fool a blind mouse. That is how she could avoid giving her name. My grandfather used to tell me to never trust anyone who would not tell you what they were called.”

Caitlin burrowed in the straw with embarrassment. “Absolute rubbish,” came her muffled voice.

“First it’s Goodnight, now it’s Absolute-rubbish, make up your mind please.”

Alan laughed.

“Stop teasing me!” She cried. “My name is Caitlin.”

“Caitlin,” repeated Robin seriously.

Alan looked at her curiously. “Now why does that name sound so familiar?”

“I shall return to my slumber,” said Caitlin imperiously, “if you don’t mind.”

But she did not sleep. She lay awake, listening to their chatter. They did not mention her name, but still, Caitlin felt uneasy. Supposing Alan had heard the villagers talk of her. He would know what she was. It was not really fair that people should treat her so differently because she was a werewolf. She was human most of the time, wasn’t she? It was only some nights that she would change, and even then, she meant no harm. Even though it was their fault she starved most of the time, even though they had murdered her parents. Caitlin sat up quickly. She should not think such thoughts. It could only make things worst, her hating everyone around her.

“So when do you suppose your friends will be here?” Alan was saying.

Caitlin perked up her ears.

“At night. It would be an impossible feat during the daytime,” replied Robin.

The wooden door creaked.

“Hush; here comes a guard,” whispered Alan.

The guard walked along the corridor scanning the prison cells. He paused in front of Caitlin’s. He carefully unlocked the door and held it open.

“You, girl. You are to come with me. And none of your tricks; you cannot escape.”

Caitlin got up and walked just to the corridor.

“Come along now, you,” he said gruffly. He led her to a small room near the dungeons. Inside was a man shuffling though parchment. He looked up at them. It was the man she saw yesterday in the banqueting hall who had killed someone.

“Well, don’t just stand there at the door. Bring her inside.”

Caitlin was pushed in farther and the door clicked closed behind her. At first he paid her no attention and went back to looking at his parchment. This gave Caitlin a chance to look around. The room had white-washed walls and its only furnishings were a chair behind the table and a little seat rest in front. The man who occupied the chair behind the desk wore a cloth of gold tunic with a large crimson square on the front. On it was embroidered a black lion. He looked up. Wavy, shoulder-length dark hair framed his swarthy, evil-looking face.

“Well,” he said, “where to began. Have a seat first.” He gestured towards the little rest. Caitlin sat on the floor. If he was surprised by her defiant action, he did not show it. He merely looked amused. “You,” he began at last, “are the most different werewolf that has ever come across my path.”

“What would you know about werewolves?” Caitlin growled, leaving no doubt as to her ancestry.

“Everything naturally,” he displayed long, sharp canines as he smiled.

Caitlin felt shocked and strangely horrified. She had never met another of her kind, save her own parents and they had died when she was seven years old.

“You would betray your own nature,” he continued.

“I know not of what you speak.”

“Come, come,” he laughed, “you own that you give your allegiance to the Prince of Silvengarde.”

“What importance does that bear?”

“No werewolf would ever do that. We owe no human any allegiance.”

“I am human during the day, and most nights as well, why should I not behave as benefits a human?”

“Because of those times when you are wild and untamed and as unhuman as any creature could be, stain your life. You can never be as they!”

Caitlin inclined her head and said nothing. She could not argue with him. And yet what he was saying contradicted what her father had taught her in her early childhood.

“You do not belong with those foolish humans. You belong with your own kind. You owe your allegiance to a leader of all the werewolves.”

Something in Caitlin broke. “If they are all as cruel as you, then I belong with no one—I have no kind!” She screamed.

The werewolf was furious. He stood up, his eyes blazing with rage.

“Guard! Take her back to the dungeon!” He shouted.

The guard threw open the door. “Perhaps some more time spent caged up is necessary to persuade you,” the werewolf growled as the guard marched Caitlin out.

The others gave her sympathetic looks as she was locked back into her old prison. The guard turned and spat at her before he left. She sat there still a moment. She did not say anything.

“Are you all right?” Robin asked.

Caitlin nodded. “I am fine,” she answered huskily.

“Don’t fear; my friends will rescue us tonight.”

She managed a weak smile.

“What did they say to you?” Alan asked.

Caitlin drew a ragged breath. “They wanted me to join with them.”

“What did you tell them?” Breathed Robin.

“No,” said Caitlin, “And I think I said ‘never’ too.”

Robin laughed.

“Why you and not any of the rest of us?” Asked Alan.

Caitlin shrugged, with laughter in her eyes. She belonged with this kind of people. But would they still accept her if they knew her secret? Caitlin knew that eventually they must be told, but for now she enjoyed their camaraderie.

Their journey turned out to be a short one. Pierces’ destination was only in the valley below the hill on which they camped. It was a tournament, in which Pierce hoped to prove himself and so be knighted. The vibrant banners on the multi-hued pavilions fluttered in the morning breeze. Pierces’ face took on a new expression that Caitlin had never seen on his face before—that of rapturous awe and delight.

There were new sights and sounds at every corner as they walked through the contestants’ encampment. Each tent was brightly painted with the knight’s coat of arms. Matching flamboyant ribbons adorned the protruding tent poles. Knights sat outside their tents, polishing their armor, calling out to one another. Caitlin gazed around in wonder. She herself might have been of a rare breed, but she had lived all her life outside the village. Even her experience at the castle was something a person in her position would never even dream of. Their group was treated with surprise and condescension. A would-be-knight in rough, country clothes, a rag-tag clown, a peasant boy, an unkempt soldier, and most incongruous, a pretty, young lady wearing a gown that was the envy of the entire female community in the area.

Finally Pierce found an empty spot for his own tent. Alan and Ty, who was feeling up to a little work, helped him set it up. Caitlin, under strict orders from Ty, took Robin to explore the encampment.

Just around the corner from Pierces’ tent was a black pavilion. There was not even a spot of color about it. It had no ornamental ribbons. The knight sat in front, but he was not polishing his armor as did the others. No, he wore his, and let his squire polish it till it shone like obsidian. This was the black knight that traditionally almost won the tournament. If he seemed disgruntled from being beaten by all the young heroes, he did not show it. Caitlin pushed Robin on. Next they came to the swan knight’s tent. They dubbed him that because his tent had an enormous swan painted on all of its six sides. The knight himself looked rather foppish. He wore a blue tunic with silver trim with lighter blue hose. He looked like a man who would be leaving for a nobleman’s festival at any moment, but he showed no desire to leave at all. Instead he sat, tying blue and white silk ribbons to various places on his silvery armor. Robin’s eyes widened.

“Are those sorts allowed to run loose here?” He whispered to Caitlin. She frowned and pulled him away.

“I am sure he takes himself very seriously,” she said in answer.

They also saw many of the more usual type of knight. Those who wore leather while they scrubbed away at their slightly dented armor while sprawling in front of the tents which bore common heraldry. This included quartered coats of arms bearing two different exotic or familiar beasts. These knights were the least interesting sort. There were also a few, very few, of the peasant boy would-be-knight type who desperately scoured their rusty, dented armor and blushed to admit that the tattered tent behind them was theirs. There was also a long time champion or two or three who referred to their many victories and discussed finer points of style with the passers-by. And there was one tent that stopped Caitlin’s heart for a second when she saw it. The pavilion was blood-red, and on it was a lion standing on its hind feet alone, roaring in its rage. In front of it sat a familiar figure indolently. His wavy, shoulder-length dark hair shadowed his face. Caitlin stopped abruptly and turned around. She walked away quickly, pulling Robin with her. He looked at her with surprise.

“It is high time we returned to Pierce before he worries over our long absence,” she quieted his protests.

Pierces’ tent was much superior than the other would-be-knights, but it could not be confused with a real knight’s. It had no banner, though that omission was hardly noticed, but only its front bore his heraldry. It was most artistically done. A wide-spreading green tree whose roots grasped a stream lay in bold, bright strokes on the white canvas. Caitlin wondered vaguely what it meant. Pierce and Ty seemed quite pleased over it. Their beet-red faces beamed. Alan, however, knew what a knight’s tent should be, and he kept casting doubtful glances at it from time to time.

“Hallo there,” Pierce called on seeing them, “did you ever see a tent such as this on your tour?”

“No,” cried Robin in delight. Caitlin had to agree. She certainly had never seen any tent quite like it.

“Do you like the heraldry?” Pierce asked, then not awaiting an answer, “I thought it most poetical.” This seemed incongruous to Caitlin. Ty she could imagine enjoying the poetry and warlike ballads the bards recited. Then Pierce confirmed her suspicions. “Ty is going to paint my shield to match.”

Caitlin smiled knowingly as she peered into the tent’s interior. There was of course no furnishings, but Pierce or Alan or Ty had lain down blankets over the grass. Pierces’ armor rested neatly, taking up a goodly quarter of the tent.

Pierces’ smile vanished. “There is no room for all of us,” he began nervously, “so I have made arrangement for you to stay with the other damsels here. Alan is to stay with the guards and such and help out. I am most terribly sorry.”

“That was most considerate of you,” said Caitlin, “Could you point the way to its general direction?”

“You walk down that way all the way to the end, and at the right hand side is a foot path. You walk along it for a ways, and then you reach the ladies’ encampment. There might be a guard there but he should let you pass.”

“Thank you. You all won’t mind if I go see exactly where and how it is, do you? I will be back throughout the day,” Caitlin glanced around. At the ladies’ area, she would be very far from the crimson tent with the lion and its knight, who would most certainly recognize her.

“No, no,” said Ty, “You go on. We do not mind at all.”

“Meaning you are glad to be rid of me,” Caitlin said over her shoulder as she walked away.

The damsel camp was every bit as colorful and as alive as the knights’ camp, only this camp was smaller. The pavilions were of solid, more feminine colors. Set up were rose, sky blue, and pale green tents. Their inhabitants sat outside these, not polishing armor, but combing their hair. Lively banter went back and forth between them. Banter that quieted as Caitlin passed. Surely most all the ladies who saw Caitlin felt the arrow p***k of envy. They stared at her masses of curly black locks that fell to her mid-back. They stared at her aristocratically pale skin and clear-cut features. And they gawked at her dress.

“She is not really that pretty,” said one such woman after Caitlin had passed, “but her dress is incredible. If I had that dress I’d be the beauty of the tournament.”

“If you had that dress?” Laughed another.

“If you had that dress, you could hardly be the most beautiful one here; you would be disfigured from the lack of a right arm,” called another.

The first one glared at the others. “What I mean is that it’s the dress that lends her her beauty.”

“Who said she was beautiful?” Shrieked the second.

Then an argument ensued that was not pretty to behold. Caitlin walked on, unaware of the chaos she was causing. Then Caitlin found the lady in charge. She took a deep breath and asked her a question.

“Excuse me, I am a new comer here, is there a spare tent I could use?”

“Hmm,” the lady said, looking her up and down. She chewed her lip. “Come with me.”

Caitlin followed her to a larger blue tent. Outside of it side sat a couple of girls. The lady in charge walked directly to them.

“Is there any room left in here?”

The girls’ eyes widened. “For her?”

The lady blinked at them. “Well…”

“I suppose so,” they grudgingly admitted.

“Excellent; she can stay here with you,” with that, the lady turned and walked back. The women stared at Caitlin, who stared back at them.

“Sit down,” said one finally. Caitlin sat. They were not plain. Their chestnut hair shone and their cheeks were rosy with good health. Their dresses too were not dowdy. Their tight crimson sleeves and long draping skirts were stylish. But they lacked the sheen and glamor that Caitlin and her dress seemed to possess. They smiled shyly. Caitlin smiled back in response.

“Where did you get that dress?” One timidly asked.

Caitlin’s smile faltered. “That is a long story. One I do not wish to tell.” She looked at them. “I did not steal it.”

“I did not mean that at all!” She cried.

“It was lent to me, but they forgot that I still had it and I had no opportunity to return it. Well, I think they knew, so I suppose it is a gift of sorts.” Caitlin looked down. “My life is not easy,” she looked up, “Things are always tangled and confused for me.” She laughed.

“It’s all right,” said another kindly, “You need not explain.”

“Thank you,” said Caitlin. She stood up. “I must be gone for a while, but I will be back soon enough.” They nodded.

Back with the others, Pierce was laughing ruefully.

“The tournament begins today,” he said by way of greeting.

“In an hour’s time,” Alan finished glumly.

Robin and Ty looked nervously around.

“Then why are you not readying yourself?” Caitlin asked.

“Is an hour enough time?” Pierce shrugged, “ Maybe I’m not meant to be doing this at all.”

“Why do you doubt? Do not waste time,” said Caitlin fiercely. “Ty, Robin, what is wrong?”

“He seems to be inflicted with last moment nervousness,” answered Alan.

“Pierce! There is no time for this! Get into your armor,” ordered she. Robin and Ty exchanged glances. They ran to the tent and dragged out the armor. They started pelting him with the smaller pieces. Then they had to throw some of the larger.

Finally Pierce cried, “I surrender! You may put that on me if you so wish.”

But Robin lifted up his great helmet and said doubtfully, “And no more of this nonsense?”

“Yes, yes, I promise. Just do not throw that! You will bang it all up!”

“Too late!” Robin took carefully aim. Ty reached and snatched it from his arms.

“Hurrah!” He cried in triumph.

“Aw,” Robin mock sniffed in disappointment.

Caitlin smiled. “I’ll see you joust at noon then.” She darted back to the other camp. She was quite unaware that that malicious eyes had watched them and followed her now. The other girls whom she would stay with were happy to see her. They told her that they had just heard that the jousting would begin soon. Caitlin nodded. Mock fights did not enthuse her, nor did they the others. Most all were there because they knew someone who was to fight.

“I hope you do not think we enjoy seeing people fighting,” the one named Rosanne whispered. Her twin, Roxanne, nodded.

“We are here to watch our brother joust,” said Beth, the eldest.

“He was knighted last month,” Lissa confided.

“I, too,” answered Caitlin to their mute question, “am here solely to watch an acquaintance earn his knighthood.”

“We should find seats while we can,” Beth stood. Caitlin attached herself to their little group. She went with them to the platforms above the arena and sat with them under a canopy reserved for the ladies and nobles. The ropes at the far end separated the arena from the peasants who gathered to watch. The duke who held the tournament came and sat down. The first contestants were announced. Caitlin did not recognize them or their names. Then they rode forth. The duke’s handkerchief fell. And the horses galloped toward each other. Their lances struck one another and both fell from their horse. Not a very decisive victory, but it did not matter to the duke. Then appeared two more and the tournament continued. Caitlin did not care for any of this.

Then came a break for a while to allow the spectators to stretch and talk about the contestants and the tournament in general. Caitlin was glad of this. She wanted to leave, but the crowd blocked any passage. So she stayed with the sisters.

Caitlin recognized both of the next two contestants. One was the black knight she and Robin had seen, the other’s shield bore a black lion on a crimson field. He was announced as Sir Reynard of Endgarde. He trounced the black knight easily, drawing gasps from the crowd. Never had the black knight been defeated so early on. He also proceeded to defeat all of his opponents. At the end of the day, he was declared the winner of the first day. Many of the knights had not fought yet, including Pierce and the Beth’s brother. They would joust tomorrow, when the final victor would be announced. Caitlin was exhausted from sitting all afternoon. She felt rather cross when Sir Reynard rode around the arena with all the people cheering him. She felt frightened too, for fear he would recognize her or say something to her. But he did no such thing. Maybe in his excitement he did not notice, maybe he did and had his own reasons for his actions. Caitlin hurried as fast as she could manage to leave and return to her shared tent.

She pretended sleep when the sisters finally came. She did not want to have to join in their excited chatter about the tournament.

“I could not believe that the black knight was defeated so early this year!” Lissa gasped.

“I know. I was so surprised. I was afraid the black knight would defeat Sir Reynard,” Roseanne chimed in.

“He has been practicing,” said Beth more calmly than her sisters.

“Don’t you think he is handsome?” Said Lissa slyly.

Caitlin rolled her eyes under her eyelids.

“Lissa! None of that talk from you, my dear,” Roxanne chided.

“I hope he does not defeat our brother!” Exclaimed Rosanne worriedly.

“Never mind, Rosanne,” Caitlin could hear a smile in Beth’s voice, “We must hush; our friend is quite asleep and it fortunate she is. What would she say if she could hear us?”

Lissa tittered. Then they all settled themselves down for rest and continued their conversation in whispers. Caitlin fell asleep. She woke during the middle of the night. The others slept peacefully. Caitlin poked her head out of the tent. The moon was just a sliver now. She closed the tent with a soft sigh. At least it meant that the other werewolves as well would not change for a little while. Caitlin only wished she had more time. She fell back among the cushions.

Lol, is anyone actually going to read an entire book's worth here?

Caitlin fingered the notches she had cut into the bark. Had it really been seventeen days that she had spent in this forest. It did not seem possible. Two days till full moon. Caitlin shuddered. That thought was dreadful. She looked up at the moon. It almost looked full now. The tree branches moved in the wind. Caitlin was covered in moonlight. Again she felt change and shuddered. She knew what was happening to her. How was it possible. How had her calculations gone amiss? Silver fur spread all over her. She felt her nose grow, and with it, her sense of smell. Caitlin dropped onto her front feet. She whisked around, fully wolf.

She padded forward. She raised her nose and sniffed the wind. She smelled another wolf, its scent was vaguely familiar. Her ears perked up from lying flat against her head. Far away a wolf howled. Caitlin the wolf cocked her head. There had been no wolves in this forest before. Now there were two, perhaps more. She shifted her wait on one side. There was something Caitlin the human knew that was important but the wolf could not remember it. The feeling nagged at her. The wolf turned and bounded away. The strange yet familiar wolf yowled again. Only Caitlin’s sharp ears caught the faint noise.

Caitlin kept on running. Ahead, the trees were thinning. Then Caitlin was out of the forest. Castle walls loomed ahead. Caitlin stopped her haste. She slowed to a padding walk. Two guards stood by the lowered drawbridge. Caitlin the wolf growled at them and slunk closer. Their faces turned pale. The beads of sweat that ran down their foreheads and cheeks glistened in the full moon’s light.

“My master,” one faltered, “you have returned.”

Caitlin snarled. She could sense fear in his eyes. She could smell it in his sweat. She crept closer. They jumped back nervously.

“Sir,” said the other, “will you not enter your castle?” They turned and gestured that she should go past them and into the castle beyond. Caitlin padded past them over the drawbridge. It smelt of horses’ hooves and men’s boots. She entered quietly, only her claws clicked on the stone floor. She walked along till she reached a large council room. She squeezed through the crack between the wall and the heavy wooden door. It was quiet and dark within. Caitlin the wolf lay down and licked her sleek silvery pelt. The door creaked open and a shaft of yellow-orange candle light fell across the floor. Then a figure stood silhouetted against the light and cast his shadow on the rectangle of orange on the ground. Caitlin raised her head. The stranger entered and closed the door behind him. Through the darkness, Caitlin’s night eyes saw him approach. The hem of his black cloak swished along the floor.

“The guards told me I would find you here. Imagine my surprise on finding, not my servant Sir Reynard, but Caitlin,” The stranger’s deep, powerful voice rang in the stillness.

Caitlin growled in response.

“Caitlin, Caitlin, do you not know that all werewolves belong from birth to me?”

Caitlin’s silence spoke volumes no wolf could ever say.

“Your father, Caitlin, he tried to escape his heritage. He abandoned his natural inheritance. He left my patronage with Eleanor, your mother. But he could not escape what he was. You are very like him, Caitlin. But you are young; you have time to change your mind and escape the fate that was your father’s. Why should you die in fire at the hands of the very ones to whom you extend your hands in friendship as your parents did?”

Her wolf eyes glittered in the shadows.

“Caitlin, what a lonely path you will have if you do not choose my way! Think to your future.”

The wolf whined and lowered her head. The stranger extended his pale hand to pat the creature on her head. She growled softly and backed into the wall. He dropped his arm with a smile Caitlin could hardly see in the gloom.

“Caitlin, remember: I know what you suffer.”

The figure turned on his heel. He walked quickly to the door. His cloak billowed out behind him. The smell of blood filled Caitlin’s nostrils. The door opened and clicked shut behind him. Caitlin whimpered. She moved to the door, but she could not open it. She clawed desperately at the wood. On hearing the scrabbling, the guards stared at each other alarmed. The dark figure slightly nodded. The guards threw open the door. Caitlin dashed out of the room and down the stair. The guards began to rush after her.

“Stay,” ordered the black-cloaked figure. “There is no need. The echoes of my words in her mind already pursue her more closely than you ever could.”


Caitlin awoke the next morning human and stiff. She lay, face up, on soft, short, sweet-smelling grass in a forest glade, staring at the tree branches. She sat up and looked about her. She could not remember where exactly she was or how she got here. The wild events of last night were hazy in her mind.

“I know what you suffer.”

Caitlin leaped to her feet and spun around. No one was there. The voice was in her own mind.

“What a lonely path you will have,” the voice echoed.

“Go away,” Caitlin muttered.

“Imagine my surprise…”

“Go away! You are not wanted!”

“All werewolves belong from birth to me.”

Caitlin screamed, “Am I to be tormented by this voice?”

“Why should you die in fire?”

Caitlin bolted. She ran from the forest that had been her refuge for almost three weeks. But still the voice followed her.

“Die in fire. In fire.”

“Avaunt!” Caitlin wept.

“Think to your future.”

Caitlin stumbled down the grass. She tripped and tumbled headlong for a short distance. Someone groaned.

“Caitlin?” This time her ears heard it, not her mind. The voice was very familiar.

“Ty!” Caitlin gasped, “What are you doing here?”

“The Prince sent me here to search for you.” Ty groaned again, “I guess he forgot to warn me about how I would find you.”

“The Prince?”

“Yes. Prince of Silvengarde. Pierces’ new liege.”

“Really? That’s wonderful!” Caitlin ignored the voice in her head.

“I know! But will you not come with me now back to them?”

“The Prince does not object to my presence?”

“Object! He was the one who suggested it!”

“In truth?”

“Yes, come on! They are awaiting us. We must leave at once!” Ty stood.

“Escape the fate that was your father’s,” the horrible voice rang.

Caitlin clamped her hands to her ears.

“Are you all right?” Asked Ty.

Caitlin nodded. “Let us leave this place quickly.”

“Caitlin, Caitlin,” the voice in her head called.

Caitlin shook her head briskly.

“Haste, Caitlin,” Ty cried over his shoulder, pointing one arm forward, the other gripping the reins of the two horses he was leading. Caitlin ran to catch up. They mounted the horses and rode down the valley. Sunshine shone down on their heads and the green valley grass shimmered with pale white along their narrow leaves. They rode in silence. But Caitlin held a private conversation.

“You are very like him, Caitlin.”

“Will this voice follow me everywhere?”

“He could not escape what he was.”

“Can I escape you?”

“You have time.”

“My mind will go to the moon if this continues enough!”

“Escape the fate that was your father’s.”

“Let me alone!”

They passed into another forest. The sunlight filtered through the trees. Here it was cool and moist. Ty lead them along little paths that wound about through the thick trees. Caitlin had a little peace here. The voice did not pester her so often. She almost enjoyed this leg of the journey. But this forest was small, and they passed through it and on the other side in a short time. On the other side lay Silvengarde, rising on a rocky plateau before them. The sun gleamed on the smooth white walls and turrets of the castle. Caitlin stared in wonder. Ty smiled. He urged his horse forward. Caitlin followed. The horses clattered over the drawbridge and into the castle courtyard where Pierce and the Prince himself awaited them.

In the back of her mind, Caitlin remembered Sir Reynard saying, “We owe no human any allegiance.”

The voice was back, “All werewolves belong from birth to me.”

“Now the voices are allying themselves against me,” groaned Caitlin to herself.

“Welcome home,” the Prince was saying. Robin can running.

“They are back!” He cried happily. Ty dismounted. Caitlin, as well, slide off her horse.

“I hope you will stay with us,” said the Prince kindly. His dark eyes smiled.

“I hope so too,” Caitlin replied honestly.

“Excellent, allow me to show you to your new quarters,” the breeze ruffled his fair hair.


Caitlin had stayed at the castle for about a week, though she herself felt like she had stayed there forever. She could do as she liked during the daytime. The Prince allowed her to take charge of the castle gardens, and much of her days were spent there. But in the evenings, they would all dine together. The Prince ate simply, often times they would have only bread and fish with fruit afterwards. Then after they ate, the Prince would tell them stories. These stories she would mull over as she worked in the gardens or as she walked. Some of his stories seemed similar after much thought, though it was impossible to say why.

This day, while Caitlin weeded the rose bed, she thought over last night’s story. The Prince had told of a man who sold all he owned to buy a pearl of great price. Caitlin wondered at its meaning for she was sure that all the Prince’s stories had meanings. Sometimes she would have a flash of understanding, but it would soon fade leaving her still reflecting.

Sometimes Pierce, Ty, Alan, Robin, or she would ask him. Sometimes he would answer them, but mostly that answer still left them wondering. She would ask him that night.

All through the evening meal, Caitlin could hardly contain her impatience. But the meal was finished in due time, and when it was, Caitlin asked her question.

“Prince, what was the meaning of the story you told last evening?”

“It was a picture of my kingdom here, Caitlin,” he answered.

“Your kingdom,” said Caitlin looking wildly around her at the castle walls.

The Prince laughed, “My kingdom is not made of bricks and mortar, but from the people who serve me.”

“Lord,” said Pierce, “we serve you.”

“Let me tell you another story. There was a seed that a man took and planted in a field. And though it was the smallest of seeds, it grow to become a great tree so that birds came and perched in its branches. This also is a picture of my kingdom.”

“Oh, please explain it!” Robin begged.

“It only takes a small seed whether planted in a person or a kingdom, for my kingdom to flourish there,” the Prince looked at Caitlin as his said this.

“Tell us another!” Cried Robin.

The Prince laughed again. “Very well. If a man owns a hundred sheep and he loses one, will he not leave the other ninety-nine and go in search of the lost one? And once he finds it will he not be happier about it than about the ninety-nine that stayed?”

“If it is you, then the answer is yes!” cried Robin hugging him.


The next day Caitlin went for a walk in the forest. Autumn was visiting this forest and the leaves of the trees took on a slight yellowish hue. Some trees were already dropping their flaming leaves. They crunched under her feet. When the sight of the castle had been swallowed up by trunks and golden leafed branches, Caitlin paused to regain her breath. Then she heard the crunch of leaves under feet that were not her own. She turned about to see the figure in the black cloak whose voice haunted her thoughts and dreams. Behind him, a little distance off, stood Sir Reynard. But he pretended not to notice her. Only the figure approached.

“Caitlin,” he spoke,” why do you persist in ignoring what you are?”

She did not answer him.

“Has the Prince promised to take away what you consider a curse?”

Caitlin tightened her jaw.

“For it is not a curse, you know. Do you think Sir Reynard considers it a curse? Nay, he embraces what he is, as should you. For there is still time.”

“To accept is to turn my back on everything my father taught me,” Caitlin’s voice quavered.

“Surely it is possible that he is not all you think him. After all, did he not die when you were but a child?”

Caitlin dropped her eyes.

“Every man …or werewolf must serve a master. What master had your father?”

“I do not know,” admitted Caitlin.

“So it is possible then, that at his very heart, he still served me.”

“No,” said Caitlin in a stricken voice.

“What reason can you give for what you say?”

“None, but yet I know he would never serve you!”

“What do you know about me or my service that makes you sure?”

“Your men imprisoned me.”

“So did Duke Carlyle.”

“Your servant, Sir Reynard, acted ungentlemanly when he alone did not win the tournament.”

“Is that not a personal fault, and nothing to do with me?”

“Your servant, Sarah, would have done something dreadful at the festival at Duke Carlyle’s castle.”

“Do you know that?”

“No,” doubt filled her voice.

“There are no real reasons to prevent you from joining us. Do not be unreasonable,” the voice coming from the shadowed face was low and persuasive.

“Sir Reynard threatened me with a knife,” Caitlin spoke her last objection.

“There is no cause for alarm. He has been punished for his misguided actions.”

Caitlin sank to her knees in despondency. What could prevent her from this fate now?

“I wilt have thee as my vassal if thou wilt have myself as thy liege,” the voice spoke the traditional words.

Caitlin bowed her head and gave one fateful, hopeless nod.

After this there was a week of halcyon days. Caitlin would arise early to weed the garden before breakfast. The mornings and afternoons were no longer spent taking long, forest walks. Instead, Caitlin spent most of her time in the practice room with the others. The last day of this was very much the same in the morning and early afternoon.

Caitlin woke as usual to the morning light shining into her room. She sat up and threw the soft sheets to the end of her bed. She bounced out, ignoring the numbing effect the cold stone floor had on her bare feet. She slipped her everyday dress over her head. It was red and rough and practical. Its skirt did not sweep the floor, and it did not have long, trailing sleeves.

Caitlin flung herself out the door, through the kitchen, and into the garden. She stood still a moment, her feet wet and cold in the dewy grass, and stared out to the sun rising. The trees about her, even the garden plants, cast long, narrow shadows. The grass in the sun was brilliant green and not so wet. The grass that still lay in the shade was tinted silver from the great water droplets that clung to every blade. Caitlin drew a deep breath from the morning air.

Then she knelt by the garden bed. She pulled and dung weeds out until the sun had dried most all the grass and the shadows were not quite as long. She stood up, her hands out from her sides as not to dirty her dress. The knees of her dress were soaked through. The hem too was dripping all the way around. Caitlin wiped her hands, front and back, on the soft grass. When they were dryer and cleaner, Caitlin used them to wring out her skirt. It no longer dripped, but it was darker and more wrinkled than the rest. It slapped against her as she walked back inside.

Sarah and Sir Reynard sat at the great table eating scrambled eggs and hunks of brown bread. They stared at her as she walked in the room. Caitlin slipped into her seat.

“Good morning, Sarah. Good morning, Sir Reynard.”

“Good morning,” They echoed. Sarah wiped her lips on her napkin and stared at Caitlin. Sir Reynard returned to his food.

“Would you please hand me the bread, please, Sarah,” Caitlin blinked in the onslaught of her gaze. Sarah passed her the bread platter. “Thank you,” Caitlin grabbed the remaining hunk. She bit into it as someone might bite into an apple. Sarah stared at her, then turned and shrugged.

When they had finished they arose, and moved to the practice room. Sarah seated herself by the crackling fire. Sir Reynard went to stabbing the cushion he used as a target. Sarah looked like a queen as she sat on the little seat with her back to the fire. She sat erect with her chin raised so her red-gold hair fell all the way down her back. It shone in the flickering firelight. Caitlin stood by the door stifling a rising panic. Again she saw her parents engulfed in the flames, and Sarah as a ruler dispassionately watching them die. Caitlin could not help herself. She screamed. Sir Reynard halted his practice. He turned to look at her. Caitlin fell back against the wall, gasping. She put her hands to her face.

“What is the matter?” Reynard moved towards her.

“The fire, I see my parents. The flames are covering them,” Caitlin’s hands dropped to her sides. Her eyes were wide. She screamed again.

“Calm down,” His eyes blazed.

Caitlin shook her head, “The fire—.”

“Stop it,” He ordered. There was a hard edge in his voice.

Caitlin turned and fled the room. She stumbled out into the sunshine. She ran till she reached the woods. Then she fell, gasping, onto the ground. She hunched over and wept.

“Why are you distressed?” The deep dark voice came.

“My liege, I saw my parents, dying, in the fire,” Caitlin voice was ragged, “Sir Reynard and Sarah, they scorned my pain and fear.”

“I promise you, it will all be well soon. You will go to Winterburrow this very day. You will avenge them. Then the fire will no longer haunt you.”

Caitlin sat silently. One question ran through her mind: how did he know that the village where her parents were burned was Winterburrow? She dare not ask.

“It will all be well.”

Caitlin stood up and brushed the yellow pine-needles from her skirt. “But I still cannot rejoin the others, not if—.”

“There is no need to, if you do not want to.”

“Then I will stay here until I leave for the village.” Caitlin sat down again. The faint smell of blood was gone, and she knew the her liege had turned his attention elsewhere.

Caitlin sighed and fell back among the leaves on the ground. Her wavy lackluster black hair cushioned her head and spread out on the ground. Her grey eyes, red rimmed from her bout of tears, closed. The leaves crinkled beneath her and poked into her back. Her wide red mouth yawned once. She laced her pale fingers behind her head. Tears welled up behind the closed eyelids and rolled over her cheeks. Her eyebrows, thick and black, scrunched together in an attempt to stop the flow. Caitlin rolled over. If she had to cry, she rather that the liege would not return. The leaves jabbed into her face. They aromatic, and the smell was familiar and comforting.

Today she would go back to the first place she had called home. She wondered what had happened to her house on the hill and what became of Worthhouse without her dyeing herbs. An intense longing to return to what was old and familiar filled her. She softly sighed again.

She stood up slowly. Would she stay awhile longer or would she go back to the castle to prepare for her departure? She paused for a moment. She bit her lip, then made her way back to her room.

She cast her glance about her. What would she take? She reached for her soft, leather moccasins and slipped them on her feet. Then she used thin leather straps to bind her fox fur leggings over them. She would also take her hunting knife. She took it and partly unsheathed it to reassure herself. The blade shone. She pushed it back. It clicked as the hilt met the sheath. Caitlin smiled and attached it to her belt. Her bow and quiver of arrows she would take as well.

The blue-violet gown caught her eye. How could she leave it behind? It was full of memories of dungeons, of friends, of the tournament, and of the happy times she had spent at Silvengarde. She folded it up as small as she could and tied it so it would stay small. It was put in the money pouch. But now as Caitlin’s critical eye examined it, the pouch looked bulky. She pushed it farther along on her belt. She also flung her green cape about her shoulders so the pouch was more than half hidden.

Caitlin smiled wryly. She felt more like a traveler returning home than an orphan seeking revenge on the people who killed her parents.

Sarah poked her head around the door. “I have come to say sorry for what happened earlier.”

“The liege told you that I was returning to revenge the death of my parents?”

“Yes.”

“No need to look so mournful, Sarah. You are not fooling anyone: I know you are glad I am leaving,” Caitlin’s mouth twitched.

Sarah laughed, “It is true I like you better when you are not a threat to me.”

Caitlin turned her head away to hide her narrowed eyes. She could not hate this likeable side to Sarah. And she wanted to. She turned back to Sarah with her usual expression. “Enjoy yourself in my absence.”

“Oh, I will,” Sarah playfully smirked.

“Mm,” Caitlin pushed past her. Sarah followed her. Caitlin headed to the courtyard. The liege was waiting for her. He had managed to waylay a peddler, and bribed him to take a passenger with him to Winterburrow.

The peddler was a little fellow with graying hair and weather-beaten skin though he was still youngish. He made small, quick movements and his tongue was never still. All throughout his conversation with the liege, he patted his cart and oxen affectionately. When they saw Caitlin waiting, they hurriedly broke off the conversation. The liege quickly explained that she would have to help the peddler carry his wares, but that would be her sole obligation. Caitlin climbed into the seat next to the driver’s. The peddler climbed into his seat.

“Gee’ up,” he shook the reins. The two oxen pulled the cart out of the courtyard and over the drawbridge. Caitlin looked back and waved gaily to Sarah. “Well, now,” the peddler leaned back in his seat. “If my old dad could see me now, escorting fine young ladies, he’d be awful proud.” He beamed with satisfaction at his new social height.

“Yes.”

“My mum too, she never believed I’d amount to much. The youngest of three I am,” he sighed.

“Oh?” Caitlin asked politely.

“My brothers were real, fine men. The eldest is a butcher and my other brother used to run a shop that sold cloth and dyes and such. He’s the mayor of Winterburrow now.”

“Really?”

“But what would a fine lady like you care about such people as me and my brothers,” the peddler sighed.

“I think I have heard of your brother. Worthhouse is his name, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s what people call him,” he smiled, “Well now, we are slightly famous if you know him.”

“Has your family lived in Winterburrow for long?”

“Before my brothers or myself were born, I reckon.”

“Then you would recognize the name Lowell or Eleanor?”

“Indeed, I do, miss. When I was just a lad of seventeen, there was a great stirring over those people. But I was not there, being apprenticed to a peddler, you know. But my brothers and my mother referred to it now and then for a year afterward. I don’t remember the story, only the names. Goodness, that was long ago.”

“Rather.”

“We are entering Winterburrow now, miss. You can hop off. I don’t expect a lady like yourself to help me. No, go along now. It was mighty pleasant talking with you.”

“Thank you,” Caitlin turned and called before rounding the corner. She stared around herself. The village had certainly changed under Worthhouses’ leadership. The houses were tidy outside, the streets were clean and swept. The refuse that had lined the streets were things of the past. And just around the corner was Worthhouses’ old shop, his no longer. He had given it up when he became the mayor. It was now a carpentry shop. Caitlin peered into it through the spotless diamond windows. A young man she did not recognize was sweeping up curly wood shavings on the wooden floor. Caitlin moved away and continued to walk down the street. The people she saw walking along nodded to her, but did not appear to know who she was.

Caitlin strode in the direction of the mayor’s house. According to his brother, the peddler, he knew the events that led to her parents’ death, and presumably who was responsible. She had to know before she did anything rash.

Caitlin turned down another street, then stopped. She turned and surveyed the surrounding buildings. She back tracked to the main street. The turning was father along.

“Things are so very different,” Caitlin sighed to herself. The next street led to the mayor’s house, and Caitlin walked right to it. But she hesitated before the door. Then she reached out and gripped the ornate, brass door knocker. The skin on her knuckles was tight and pale as she gripped it. She lifted it. She let it fall back against the dark wooden door. It clanked. Caitlin lifted it again, and again she let it knock against the wood. Then Caitlin waited.

The door creaked open. A face, pale against the gloomy interior, peered around it at her, blinking in the sunlight.

“I would like to see the mayor,” Caitlin stepped forward.

The woman in turn stepped a little back and partly closed the door. “I am sorry, but the mayor is ill; no one may see him at present.” The nurse shut the door.

Caitlin stared at the closed door for a second, then lifted the knocker. She sighed and slowly eased it down so it would not rap against the door. Caitlin turned and walked away.

The peddler had another brother, the one who was a butcher. She could talk to him. Caitlin walked back to the market square. Butcher were never hard to find. Animal carcasses always hung from the roof supports of their stalls. Flies always swarmed around the entrails thrown in the gutter. It was always surrounded by a smell of blood and dead things. Yet Caitlin could not find the butcher’s stall. She stopped a passer-by.

“Could you tell me where the butcher is, good woman?”

The elderly peasant chuckled, “I though you were too fine to have lived here before all the changes. All the villagers chased him out after he opposed his brother, our new mayor.” She laughed again.

“How horrible. Is his mother yet alive?”

“Indeed, she is. Ah she rues the day he was born I’m sure,” the woman took a few steps, “Now I have to get along home.”

“Wait, what is the mother’s name?”

“You are as green as green, if you pardon my saying so. Her rightful name is Hertha, but about here she’s known as Pride, and I ain’t telling the story of how she got it.” She chuckled again as she ambled down the street.

“Pride,” Caitlin murmured to herself. She swiveled, and selected a random street. She walked partway down it and halted as if confused. Then she approached a person.

“Could you tell me where mistress Pride lives?”

“Oh my, you are way off course. She lives off Tailor’s Street, in a small blue house with white curtains,” the girl brushed her brown hair back from her face and returned to digging in her garden.

“Thank you,” Caitlin called to her as she rushed back to the hub of the town.

Tailor’s Street was a short, but devious road that circled near the middle of the village. In the past, it was an especially dirty area known for the rickety housing quickly thrown together in the early days of Winterburrow. As far as she knew, there had never been blue houses, let alone curtains of any sort along that road.

Caitlin paused by the street sign depicting a needle and a spool of thread. It had to be the Tailor’s Street sign. Caitlin squinted and cocked her head. Even the silhouettes of the houses looked different without the filth. A blue house that blended with the sky appeared opposite her as the street bended around. As she hastened toward it, she smiled to see sun-bleached white curtains drawn half-way across the window. She slowed to an inconspicuous trudge as she drew near. Her knuckles rapped on the white-painted door.

“Come in,” a weak voice called from inside the house. Caitlin lifted the latch, and pushed the door open. An old woman propped up with cushions sat knitting. She looked up at Caitlin as she entered. “Oh, you’re not my neighbor Beulah.”

“No,” Caitlin closed the door behind her, “I came to ask you some questions about an incident twelve years ago.”

“Twelve years ago, I had three sons,” she looked down.

“Did you know of Lowell and Eleanor. I believe they lived here then.”

“Lowell and Eleanor, eh?”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m sure I’d remember.”

“Please, anything.”

“Well, I remember my cousin Thelma telling me that something dreadful either about or concerning some people by those names. Now what was it she said?”

“They died twelve years ago,” Caitlin prompted.

“No, that couldn’t have been it,” Pride reflected.

“They were a little different than the other villagers?”

The grizzled, old woman shook her head, “You’d have to ask cousin Thelma, she’d remember.”

“Where does she live?”

“She, she died last year.”

“Is there anyone still around who lived here back then?”

“My neighbor Beulah.”

“Where does she live?”

“Her house is just across the way.”

“Thank you,” Caitlin moved to the door.

“You can see yourself out I suppose,” Hertha gestured feebly, “I’m too old for such moving about.”

Caitlin stayed in her heap a while longer. Then when she was sure Sir Reynard would be far away, she stood up, opened the door, and stumbled out into the rain. She ran through the slippery wet streets and out into the meadow. She stood for a moment, letting the torrents wash over her. Her shoes and fur legging were soaked through and weighed down her feet. Her hair was plastered to her head, shoulders, and back. Water trickled down her tangled locks and streamed down her cape. Caitlin ran through the tall heather grass of the valley and up to her hill. Her garden was in disarray. The plants were yellow and their stalks were bent and broken. Caitlin did not stop to agonize over her herbs, she went straight to her door. The rocks tied on cords over the thatched roof swung in the wind which was not impeded by Caitlin’s drenched clothing. She shivered. Her numb hands reached for the cord that lifted the inside latch. She tugged on it. The door opened. Caitlin stumbled inside.

“Oh, my. And here I’m expecting my nephew and all.”

Caitlin stared at the plump, insignificant-looking woman kitting by the fire. The fire, how could she have missed seeing the hazy blue smoke rising from the chimney even in the rain.

“Well, come on in and set yourself down by the fire. You certainly need it,” the woman smiled.

Caitlin stared at the fire. It was just what it appeared to be; a cozy, little, crackling fire. She could not see in it the bonfire that had consumed her parents. Caitlin walked forward timidly. She put her palms out to its warmth.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“My pleasure. I know how dreadful it can be traveling in the rain.”

“Yes,” Caitlin dropped her cape into a soggy heap.

“Oh, my,” said the woman, “You’re wet through and through.”

“Indeed,” Caitlin sat down.

“Good thing for you that you happened on my house,” she chuckled, “Winterburrow is a ways off.”

“Across the meadow,” Caitlin edged closer to the hearth. “But I just came from there.”

“In all this rain,” the woman marveled. “Where are you heading?”

“I do not know, yet,” Caitlin held out her wet dripping hair to the heat.

“Why don’t you stay here for the night? I’d be glad to have company.”

“Thank you, I shall,” Caitlin smiled at her.

“My name is Elspeth, so you know how to address me.”

“Mine is Caitlin.”

“Well, Caitlin, how would you like to have a little slice of bread with just a smidgeon of butter,” she stood up, laying her knitting aside.

“Oh, thank you, Mistress Elspeth. I have not eaten since yesterday morning,” Caitlin almost laughed at herself in amazement. She had been so set on finding the party responsible for her parents’ death, that she had forgotten about eating.

“Oh,” the woman laughed, “we will soon fix that. And call me Elspeth please,” she called from the kitchen.

“As you would have it,” she hesitated, “Elspeth.”

“Here you are,” Elspeth handed her a thick slice of bread liberally spread with butter.

“Oh, thank you,” Caitlin’s mouth watered as she caught the smell of fresh bread. She bit into it hungrily. The bread was warm and soft with a crispy crust. The butter had melted into the slice.

Elspeth watched Caitlin eat. “Where are you from?” She asked.

“Around here, actually,” Caitlin dropped crumbs over her lap.

“Really?”

“Well, I have been gone for some weeks.”

“Ah, that is why I did not recognize you.”

“Yes,” Caitlin smiled after wiping her mouth free of tidbits.

“Where did you live before?”

“Before I left or before I came?”

“Well, both, I suppose.”

Caitlin sighed, “I lived very near this house. I tended the garden.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. Then I spent some at Wintergarde, the castle near here, and some time at two other castles.”

“You have traveled quite a bit then.”

“I suppose so.”

“What were the other castles' names?”

“Well,” Caitlin paused, “at Silvengarde and Endgarde.”

“Truly? I have a nephew at Endgarde.”

“Is he a guard or a soldier or…”

“We are all very proud of him. He is a knight. He has won many tournaments.”

“How impressive.”

“Yes, indeed. His name is Sir Reynard. Have you heard of him? Did you see him while you were there?”

“Yes,” Caitlin felt faint.

“Really. How is he?”

“Fine I suppose.”

“Are you quite all right. You look very pale.”

“It is from being out in the rain and the cold.”

“Oh, my dear, how thoughtless I am. Let me bring you some dry clothes and some quilts,” she moved away to the other side of the room. “Here you are,” she dumped an armload of blankets and clothes into Caitlin’s lap.

“Thank you,” Caitlin dove under the pile. When she reemerged, she was wearing dry clothes. She knelt and spread out her wet ones before the fire. Then she wrapped the warm, thick blankets about herself.

“That is better now, eh?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Well, where is my nephew, I wonder.”

“Sir Reynard would not happen to be the nephew that you are expecting?”

“Yes, and I wonder why he is not here yet.”

“Oh,” cried Caitlin.

“You haven’t burned yourself, have you?”

“No,” Caitlin said in a small voice.

“Oh, good,” Elspeth settled herself down again, and took up her knitting. Caitlin huddled in a heap under the blankets, wishing with all of her heart that she had not come in or told the woman her name. She reached out, grabbed her drying clothes, and threw them into a soggy heap on her opposite side. Then she rolled over onto her side and feigned sleep with the blankets covering most all of her. Only the fingertips of her right hand and a lock of her damp her protruded.

There was a sound of feet outside and Caitlin heard the squeak of the latch being lifted. The door creaked open and she heard the tread of booted feet on the wood floor.

“Auntie, I am finally back. You did not miss me too keenly, I hope.”

“Reynard! I am glad you’re here. I did so worry. I have some company, please do not disturb her.”

“Company?”

“Yes, a traveler beset by the wind and rain.”

“I am glad you were not lonely.”

“You might know her.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, she said she spent some time at Endgarde.”

“Really? Did she give you her name?”

“She said her name was Caitlin.”

“What? She came here?”

“Not so loud; you will wake her.”

“Are you sure it was her?”

“That’s what she said her name was.”

“What did she look like?”

“Darkish hair, very wet from the rain, grey eyes I think, pale, slender and tallish, need I continue?”

“No, that is she.”

“Who is she exactly?”

“I am not sure, but wait, you have a fire going.”

“Yes?”

“Did she seem at all alarmed by it?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Little—.”

“Why did you ask?”

“The Caitlin I knew was terrified by fire.”

“Really?”

“Let me check and see.”

“Don’t wake her.”

“I will try not to.”

Caitlin heard his feet come closer. Then they stopped. Her ears strained to hear his knees gently rest on the floor. She felt his touch on her exposed fingers. She curled her upper lip. Then she felt the blanket roof above her being throw back and his hand brush her head. In one motion she half rolled and turned so she was sitting up with her back to the blanket pile. She met his eyes and screamed.

“Calm down,” he ordered.

“You woke her,” Elspeth reproached him.

“She was already awake.”

“Leave me alone,” tears sprang unbidden to Caitlin’s eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Sir Reynard asked her as he glared his aunt to silence.

“I used to live here.”

“My aunt lives here.”

“What did she say,” Elspeth edged forward.

“Does she,” Caitlin nodded at Elspeth, “know what you are?”

“How do you mean?” Reynard sat back on his heels.

“He is a werewolf,” said Caitlin looking at Elspeth.

“What?” The aunt’s eyes widened.

“That not something you just blurt out,” he glowered at Caitlin.

“It is true then?” She gasped.

“So is she,” he gestured to Caitlin for emphasis.

“That’s different,” Caitlin snapped.

“How?”

“I do not enjoy it; you do,” she leveled her gaze at him.

“And that is a great difference,” he mocked.

“You are both werewolves?” Elspeth’s face was pale and her voice was soft and forced.

“Yes,” Reynard’s jaw tightened.

“But, but, how?”

“My dear aunt, it is hereditary. I inherited it from my father, your brother-in-law.”

“But my sister never said anything to me about it.”

“Mother was ashamed, I think.”

“This is a nightmare,” his aunt wailed.

“I am sorry, Aunt Elspeth. I am sorry that you learned. I am sorry it distresses you so much. I did not wish you to know.”

“This is absolutely dreadful.”

“Yes.”

“But she was so polite, and you were always so well-behaved and dutiful.”

“Werewolves do not have to be wild and vicious all the time.”

“I did not know I was a werewolf until I was fourteen,” interjected Caitlin.

“Surely you jest,” cried Reynard.

Caitlin shook her head, “Remember my parents died when I was seven, when I was too little to be told.”

“Your parents are dead?” Elspeth leaned forward.

“Yes, their death was ordered by Sir Reynard’s liege.”

“Oh,” Elspeth turned to stare at Reynard’s face.

“You do not know that,” he defended.

“I asked around about the events that led to their death. Nan said that a man cloaked in black with a deep, powerful voice incited the villagers to burn them at the stake,” Caitlin’s voice was ragged.

“Oh,” Sir Reynard lowered his head, then raised it, “But the villagers did not have to kill them, they could have just driven them out. And they did not have to listen to the liege.”

“I do not care. I shall not attempt revenge by destroying Winterburrow.”

“You poor thing,” cried Elspeth, and her arms about her. Caitlin was engulfed in the embrace.

Sir Reynard narrowed his eyes. He stood up and left, slamming the door behind himself.

“Never mind him. He is just upset,” whispered the woman.

Caitlin nodded.