Chapter 24: The Warlord of Wycliffe

I pulled on my dress and ran down the ridge with Dorian behind me.

We reached the Greyhollow wall in time to see the gate swing open.

Verity stood beside it with a lantern.

Roderick stood in front of her in the road, with a small leather pack on his back.

He wore the same plain shirt as the dawn before.

He had nothing in his hands.

Greyhollow had come out to watch him go, in a silent line along the wall.

No one spoke.

No one threw anything.

It would have been easier for him if they had.

Verity took off her own grey coat and held it out.

"It's cold on the road," she said.

Roderick looked at it.

"You carried me up that hill," he said hoarsely. "I never thanked you."

"No."

"Thank you."

"Take it."

He took it, and he put it on.

He turned to the wall.

He found me among the faces, and he stood still.

I did not nod.

I did not say anything.

I stood with my hand in Dorian's and let him see that I was there.

His mouth moved.

I think it said my name.

Then he turned and walked out through the gate into the dark road, alone.

The gate closed behind him, and Verity dropped the bar.

The sound rang off the stones.

Not a wolf in the line moved until his footsteps were gone.

Then an old woman at the end of the wall began, very softly, to hum.

It was the old harvest song, the one my mother had sung.

Another voice joined, and another.

I put my head on Dorian's shoulder and listened to the whole pack sing the Alpha out.

Colm Radley had gone through the same gate at noon, stripped of rank and branded a poisoner.

Nobody had sung for him.

The morning of the marking was cold and clear.

We held it at the rebuilt hearth of the Wycliffe lodge, with the roof still open to the sky and the black banner nailed above the fire.

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