Chapter 3: What Do You Charge?

I waited for the voice to speak again.

Rain drummed against the shelter roof. Water gathered in a crack above the doorway and fell in slow, heavy drops.

“Please.”

Nothing answered.

I pressed my palm beneath my ribs, where the strange warmth had stirred.

All my life, I had watched wolves speak silently with the other half of themselves. Adrian would pause in the middle of a sentence, listening to something I could not hear. Celeste sometimes laughed at a private remark from hers.

At fifteen, I had waited.

At sixteen, I stopped asking when mine would come.

Now I was twenty-two, alone in a roadside shelter, wondering whether hunger had finally made me hear things.

I studied the medicine bottle.

The physician’s instructions were scratched into the paper label.

Three measures each morning. Take with food.

Below them was my name.

I pushed the stopper firmly into place.

For tonight, I would listen to the voice.

Even if it had only been my own.

---

By morning, my feet were cold enough to hurt.

I had slept in broken stretches, waking whenever the wind shifted. Once, I dreamed someone was standing over me with the medicine spoon.

I woke with my mouth clamped shut.

Gray light filled the doorway.

For several moments, I lay still, gathering the courage to move. Then I eased my swollen foot into its boot and went outside.

The rain had stopped.

Everything smelled too sharp.

Wet bark. Mud. Something sweet rotting beneath the leaves.

I could hear water running farther down the hillside, although I had noticed no stream the night before.

The voice remained silent.

I drank from a little runoff channel where it crossed the road, washed my hands, and began walking.

At the first fork stood a weathered sign.

BELLWETHER, fourteen miles.

BLACKTHORN, six.

I had heard of Blackthorn.

Its Alpha had inherited a difficult border and a pack that had buried too many people defending it. Father called him stubborn.

Adrian called him ambitious.

Neither had ever mentioned whether he employed wardkeepers.

Six miles was closer than fourteen.

I turned toward Blackthorn.

---

The pain in my heel settled into a steady burn.

By late morning, I had developed a way of walking that hurt less, although it made my hip ache. I kept my eyes on the road and promised myself I would rest after the next bend.

Then the next.

A merchant wagon passed without slowing.

I stepped aside for it and caught the smell of apples beneath its canvas cover.

My mouth filled with saliva.

For several humiliating seconds, I considered running after it.

Instead, I waited for the wheels to disappear and continued uphill.

That was when I heard the fault.

Three low pulses.

A pause.

Two quick ones.

I stopped.

The sound came from somewhere beyond the trees to my right. Most people would have mistaken it for an insect buzzing close to their ear.

To me, it felt like a loose tooth.

A boundary marker.

I looked along the road.

No patrol. No houses.

I should keep walking.

The pulse came again.

This time, the skin along my arms tightened.

I pushed through the brush.

The marker stood beside an old drainage ditch, half-hidden beneath fern fronds. Its upper runes were intact, but the ground had washed away from one side of its base.

A thin amber light seeped from a crack beneath the binding ring.

I crouched.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

The words escaped before I could stop them.

The stone was trying to close a circuit through open ground.

Every pulse drew more strength from the neighboring markers. If it continued, the weakness would spread along the road.

Another wagon could pass straight through the leaking current.

I laid two fingers against the upper groove.

Pain snapped into my hand.

I jerked back.

“All right,” I whispered. “Not there.”

My tools were gone.

For a moment, anger rose so suddenly that I had to close my eyes.

They had taken a chalk stub from me.

After everything else, they had still needed the chalk.

I pulled out my grandmother’s knife.

Its blade was narrow enough to clear the packed soil from the lower channel.

I worked carefully.

The stone did not need a new carving. The binding beneath it had slipped when the bank collapsed. If I could redirect the remaining current through the inner groove, it would stop draining the rest of the line.

A temporary repair.

Enough to make the road safe.

I cleared the groove, pressed damp clay into the broken outer channel, and took the length of binding thread from my pocket.

It was barely longer than my hand.

I stared at it.

Then I laughed once.

Yesterday, it had been rubbish caught in my coat.

I wound it around the exposed binding points and tightened the knot with my teeth.

The amber light flickered.

“Come on.”

I placed my palm against the stone.

Warmth stirred beneath my ribs.

For a breath, the whole marker seemed to open beneath my hand. I felt the strained line reaching north, the uneven pull of the next stone, the hollow space beneath this one.

I drew back, startled.

The warmth vanished.

But the pattern remained clear in my mind.

I adjusted the thread a finger’s width.

The broken pulse settled into a steady hum.

I sat back on my heels.

Then someone behind me said, “Take your hand off the marker.”

---

Three people stood among the trees.

Two wore dark patrol coats.

The third was bareheaded, with rain-dark hair and a travel cloak fastened at one shoulder. He stood slightly ahead of the others.

His gaze moved from my knife to the stone.

I lowered the blade.

“I was repairing it.”

“You crossed our boundary,” one of the patrolmen said.

“I didn’t know which side of it the road fell on.”

“Your name.”

“Elara Vale.”

The patrolman’s expression changed.

So Father’s word had reached here too.

I folded the knife slowly.

The bareheaded man held out his hand.

“Let me see.”

I hesitated.

“The blade,” he said. “You can keep the handle.”

I opened it again and held it where he could inspect the clay-streaked edge.

He looked at the cleared groove.

Then at the thread.

“Did you repair this?”

“Yes.”

“How long will it hold?”

“Until the next heavy rain, if nobody touches the binding. Less if the neighboring stone is damaged too.”

His eyes returned to me.

“Is it?”

“I can’t tell from here.”

One of the patrolmen stepped forward. “Alpha, she could have caused—”

“Have you inspected this marker before?”

The man stopped.

“Not personally.”

“Then give her room.”

Alpha.

I rose too quickly.

My injured foot folded beneath me.

The Alpha caught my elbow before I struck the stone.

I went rigid.

His grip loosened immediately.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

He waited until I had my balance, then let go.

Up close, he looked younger than I had expected. Early thirties, perhaps. There was a pale scar through one eyebrow and mud drying along the hem of his cloak.

“Rowan Ashford,” he said.

I knew I should bow.

My knees were shaking.

“Alpha.”

He glanced at the marker again.

“What does a permanent repair require?”

“Lift the base. Rebuild the drainage bed. Replace the lower binding ring before resetting it.”

“How many workers?”

“Two, if they listen. Three if they don’t.”

Silence followed.

Then the older patrolman made a sound suspiciously like a cough.

Heat climbed my neck.

“I meant—”

“I understood.” Rowan’s mouth shifted slightly. “What do you charge?”

I stared at him.

“For what?”

“The repair.”

“It isn’t permanent.”

“You made the road safe.”

I looked down at my hands.

Clay beneath my nails. A shallow burn across my palm.

“I don’t know.”

His expression changed, though I could not have said how.

“Then we’ll use our wardkeeper’s day rate for this morning. Any further work can be agreed separately.”

Separately.

As though I could refuse.

The younger patrolman shifted his weight.

“Alpha, the Vale declaration—”

“I heard it.”

My stomach dropped.

Rowan looked at me.

“Your father accuses you of neglecting your duties.”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Can you explain the repair you just made to my wardkeeper?”

I glanced at the stone.

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll begin there.”

---

They gave me bread before we reached the house.

The older patrolman took it from his saddlebag with a piece of hard cheese, offering both without comment.

I meant to eat slowly.

I failed.

Nobody mentioned that either.

Blackthorn’s pack house stood beyond a broad courtyard busy with wagons, stacked timber, and people carrying supplies. One wing was covered in scaffolding.

Rowan dismounted beside the steps.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?”

I held the last piece of bread between my fingers.

“No.”

“Family expecting you elsewhere?”

“No.”

He nodded once.

“We have a spare room near the infirmary. You can use it tonight. Tomorrow, if you want the work, we’ll discuss terms.”

“What work?”

“Helping my wardkeeper determine how many more stones are doing what that one was.”

I looked toward the road behind us.

The thought of going back out there made my throat close.

“I’d like that.”

“Good. First, someone needs to look at your foot.”

“I can work with it.”

“I believe you.”

He opened the door.

“Let’s have it treated anyway.”

---

The healer’s name was Nessa.

She cleaned my heel while I sat on an examination bench, trying not to flinch.

“You’ve walked on this too long.”

“I needed to get here.”

She looked up, then returned to wrapping it.

“Have you been dizzy?”

“A little.”

“Fever? Trouble breathing?”

“No.”

“Any medicines?”

I reached into my coat.

Relief crossed her face when she saw the bottle, as though I had finally offered an answer she could use.

Then she removed the stopper.

Her hands went still.

“Who prescribed this?”

“Our family physician.”

“How long have you taken it?”

“Since I was fifteen.”

Nessa looked at me.

“Every day?”

I nodded.

The courtyard noises drifted through the open window: wheels, voices, a hammer striking wood.

She set the bottle down carefully.

“When was your last dose?”

“Yesterday morning. No—the morning before.”

Her gaze moved toward the door.

I gripped the edge of the bench.

“What is it?”

She turned back.

“Elara, has anyone ever explained why a strengthening tonic would contain a wolf suppressant?”