CHAPTER 18: Now I Have Seen

Alas, O Lord God! For now I have seen
the angel of the Lord face to face.
Judges 6:22

Before the echoes of the hunting call could die out, Father Völker was on his feet and staring into the dark hallway. His hands rose to the crucifix around his neck.

“He was already here,” the clergyman muttered, looking uncertain. “He must have been already here.” Or he’s stronger than you.

Albrecht’s hand tightened on the meat cleaver he’d been using. Suddenly the light of the fire didn’t seem nearly bright enough, and the shadows in the corners seemed to hide the slinking shapes of Den Erlkönig’s minions. The storm whistled and gusted outside the shuttered windows behind him.

“Now what?” he asked, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. Father Völker drew back from the open doorway, troubled.

How had the Erl King avoided his wards?

Perhaps, something in his heart whispered, the prayers of a conflicted man are not strong enough….

Papers rustled as Naich stood. He placed the pages on the mantelpiece, capped the ink jar, and set his pens near it in a row.

“We must find the others,” Father Völker said. “At this point, none of us can afford to be caught in the keep alone.”

“Go out there? How do we know we’ll find anybody?” Albrecht swallowed. “The keep’s large, Father, and they could be anywhere.”

Father Völker turned to look up at him.

“God will provide,” he replied. Albrecht shifted the cleaver to his other hand and crossed himself, hoping the priest was right.

A hand touched to touch Father Völker’s shoulder. Naich stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the dark hall. Father Völker turned, following his gaze.

Firelight gleamed in amber eyes.

“Christ!” Albrecht swore, starting back. Three of the beasts silently waited outside the doorway like apparitions in the night. His back touched the table behind him.

For a frozen moment all three of them stood motionless, staring; Albrecht frightened, Völker disbelieving, and Naich with an expression of studious concentration.

“Oh, Lord,” Albrecht muttered, eyes wide. “I knew this was going to be a bad winter.”

The composer’s fingers crept up to his night-black giaquetta and plucked forth the silver-banded flute.

A grey paw moved out of the darkness and into the firelight. The wolf looked from man to man, its ears alert to any sound. As the grey-haired composer lifted his other hand to bring the flute to his lips, the wolf’s eyes and ears flickered to fix on him.

The creature crouched, teeth bared in a soft snarl. Völker’s hand crept to his cross as he whispered silent prayers.

When Naich’s first notes sounded Albrecht tensed, bracing for the attack. The wolf started forward with two smooth steps, then paused, its head rising. It seemed … to be listening to the music.

The tune from a child’s dance.

Father Völker drew his eyes away from the wolves in the doorway to stare at Naich.

The wolf in the kitchen whimpered, a puzzled sound.

“Christ have mercy,” Albrecht whispered. “They’re only children, after all.”

The other two wolves whined and crouched, their eyes puzzled as they watched their frozen companion. Naich played, one lone flute carrying the incongruous air that held the wolves at bay. Father Völker wondered what would happen when he came to its end.

The grey-haired composer took a step forward. The wolf drew back, as though unsure why the slim, darkly dressed human before him showed no fear. Another step, and the wolf whined and backed up to the door, head cocked.

When it reached its companions, it stopped. Naich drew abreast of them and stopped, too, a dark figure nearly lost in the shadows.

“Be careful,” Father Völker breathed.

Naich looked over his shoulder, still playing. Light gleamed from the silver-banded flute and lit his grey hair and pale face. His eyes met the clergyman’s a long moment, then he turned and took another step forward. Whining with uncertainty, the wolves backed away.

“Come, Albrecht,” Völker whispered. “I think he means us to follow him.”

Albrecht swallowed and nodded, keeping a firm grip on his cleaver. Slowly the priest and the cook followed Naich step-by-step into the lightless hallway. The smell of wolf seemed overwhelming as they groped their way past the beasts.

Father Völker felt something close to awe. What knowledge had God given this silent composer, to lead him past the enemy’s minions playing popular peasant’s tunes? What faith did Naich have that Völker couldn’t discover in his own heart?

Is it that he’s loyal, and I am not? I walk the line of excommunication as the pope grows increasingly impatient with Luther and his followers — is this a sign from God that I am mistaken? Has my dissatisfaction with the Church, my first hesitant steps upon the path Luther has shown us, made me less a priest in God’s eyes?

The white-haired clergyman bowed his head and prayed in the darkness.

Naich led them through the shadows, his long fingers dancing on the flute as he shifted to another familiar child’s jingle. The wolves flanked him, their ears cocked as they listened. Undaunted by his supernatural escort, Naich strode forward, leading them past the stair tower door and turning the corner.

“Look,” Albrecht whispered. Father Völker shivered as he felt something brush against his leg. He looked down. More wolves had joined them, a silent, deadly escort through the halls, their claws ticking on the polished wooden floors. Every one of the beasts seemed intent on Naich.

“Where are we going?” Father Völker asked, raising his eyes. Albrecht swallowed, clutching his cleaver with sweating hands. He glanced around. The halls were dark, shuttered against the storm outside and reeking of snow-dampened fur.

“Toward the north hall,” he said at last. “The garden hall.”

Even as the words left his mouth, Naich stopped, half-turning. The wolves pressed closer, baring their teeth as they tried to gauge the situation. Beside the composer was the west entrance, the doors to the storm.

“Surely you don’t mean to go outside,” Völker breathed. The composer continued to play, grey eyes rising to fix and hold his.

Seeing the composer’s dilemma, Father Völker stepped forward. Wolves snarled as his black frock brushed them and moved aside. Drawing reassurance from the composer’s calm, thoughtful gaze, the priest reached out and opened the heavy doors.

Wolves surged forward, a grey tide that swept around his legs, drawing him through the doorway despite himself. He stumbled, knees cracking painfully against the stone steps, palms ground into ice and snow as the wolves buffeted him on all sides.

“Father?” A hand fell on his shoulder as Albrecht leaned close, whispering below Naich’s music. “Come on!”

With the elderly priest in tow, Albrecht pulled them both backward, out of the doorway and back into the hall.

The apparently oblivious wolves continued their rush outside, Naich’s slender, straight back vanishing into the darkness among them.

“It was him they wanted,” Albrecht breathed in German, nervously licking his lips. “Just Naich.”

The cold wind powdered the hall with snow and ice.

“Saints save us,” Father Völker prayed, closing his eyes. “What game is being played here?”

“I don’t know,” Albrecht admitted, staring out. The music was growing fainter as Naich vanished. “It’s as if Hell itself has come to Gestern Keep.”

Father Völker took a deep, steadying breath, drawing himself up. Snow crunched softly under his feet as he reached out and pushed the heavy doors shut again.

“If it has,” he said, “then there must be some way to close the gates again.”

“Boldly spoken,” a mocking voice behind them said, “but you might do better to find out who opened them in the first place.”

The two shied around to see Alrune leaning in the doorway from the sitting room. He was an incongruous figure in pale fool’s garb, iron kitchen knife shoved through his belt.

“Alrune!” Albrecht shouted in relief. “You’re alive!”

“Mirabile dictu,” Alrune agreed.

“What do you mean, ‘opened the gates’?” Father Völker asked, stepping forward. He fixed the stunted scholar with a stern gaze. “What do you know of this?”

“Sometimes I have been known to build houses,” Alrune said with a low chuckle, “and you cannot get into the house when the doors and windows are barred.”

Shaking his head, Albrecht turned to glance at the door again.

The halls were ominously quiet. They couldn’t even hear Naich’s playing anymore, just the wind that rattled the door and shutters.

“Den Erlkönig has been in these mountains for a very long time,” Father Völker said, behind him. “Are you trying to tell me that somebody here invited him in? Now?”

“Can evil enter without invitation?” Alrune asked, with a deriding smile.

“I thought Teiwa’s invitation was the blood spilled here a century ago.”

“A polite guest should never outstay his host.”

“If you know how to send him away,” Father Völker said, “it’s your duty to tell us.”

“Duty?” Alrune jeered, throwing his head back and laughing aloud. “I have only one duty, Father, to one quite your superior!”

“If you heedlessly endanger our lives, then you also imperil your own immortal soul,” the priest pointed out stiffly. Although the bitter-tongued dwarf had accompanied the Gestern household each Sunday to church, Völker had little experience talking to him; now he wondered if he shouldn’t have taken less time worrying about Araciel’s absence and more time inspecting the state of those souls already in his care.

“Heedlessly? What makes you think I’m doing it heedlessly?”

With a wordless exclamation of disgust, Völker turned away. They were in far too much danger to play word games.

“Father, do you think Naich is all right?” Albrecht asked. “What if he stops playing and the wolves turn on him? Or what if they take him to the Erl King? What do you think he’d do with Naich?”

“The prodigal son?” Alrune asked, ignored by the other two.

“I think we should follow him,” Father Völker said. “Like it or not, he seems to understand more about what’s going on here — or at least, how to control it – than we do.”

“Are –”

A loud report interrupted him, echoing through the keep.

“Look out!” Albrecht yelped, cringing.

“What was that?” Völker’s hand rose to the cross around his neck.

“That,” Alrune said, cocking his head, “sounded like a pistol with too much gunpowder in its pan.”

As clergyman and cook stared at him, the scholar grinned and pointed upstairs.

“Johannes’ firearm,” Albrecht realized, looking sick. “Somebody’s using it.”

“Then we have no choice,” Father Völker exclaimed. He raised his eyes to the ceiling as though to see to the floors above. “We have to go up. Herr Naich is on his own.”

Danti and Araciel stepped out into the first floor when the shot rang through the keep. The sound echoed through the halls.

“That’s Johannes’s pistol!” Danti exclaimed, startled. “Who–”

“Caterina,” Araciel breathed. Before Danti could move, the apprentice shoved him aside and began running back up the stairs.

“Araciel, wait!” Danti shouted, trying to grab him, but the fallen angel was gone, around the curve of the stair tower. Danti ran his hands through his hair, groaning.

He’d worked without sleep all night, and most of the day. For the first time, he was beginning to feel his age.

“Wait for me!” he shouted, starting up the stairs again.

“Danti!”

He whipped around to see Father Völker hurrying toward him, Albrecht behind him clutching a meat cleaver. Behind them, Alrune paced down the hall, looking thoughtful.

“Did you hear that?” Danti asked.

“We did; Alrune said it was a pistol. Do you know who fired it?”

The sculptor shrugged.

“There’s only two people here who would have taken the lord’s gun — Dietrich or Caterina. Araciel’s already gone upstairs.” He searched the hall a moment and frowned. “Where’s Naich?”

“He has gone with the wolves,” the cleric reported. “I don’t know if he’s safe or not, but he seemed … unconcerned.”

“Damn! Sorry, Father.” Danti clenched a fist. “I don’t trust him.” For a moment he hesitated, torn between pursuing his suspicions, and pursuing his friend. “What happened?”

“The creatures gathered at the kitchen door, but he charmed them with his music and led them away, outside. I’m not certain if they’ll turn on him, but at least for the moment we seem to be safe from the Erl King’s pack.” Father Völker looked troubled. “I wish I knew how they had entered. The doors were all fastened, the windows latched….”

“The Erl King and his daughter don’t seem to have any problems opening doors,” Danti said sourly.

“But I had prayed against them….”

“Maybe prayers don’t affect them,” Alrune suggested.

“Where’s Caterina and Basti?” Albrecht asked, his thin face drawn with worry.

“Upstairs, I think.” Danti made up his mind. “Come on, let’s go. Araciel may be up there alone.”

Araciel burst into the secondfloor hall with sword drawn, forgetting his wounds in the white rush of anger that had been growing since they’d first heard the horn’s call. His eyes flickered up and down the hall, searching for any sign of Caterina or Basti. Instead, he heard the soft flutter of wings, as a black bird flew past his head and down the shadowed hallway.

Araciel spun around, looking for the raven’s sister; but there was nothing but darkness. He turned again. More darkness.

“Caterina?” he called. “Basti? Be thee here?”

Nothing but silence answered him. Jaw set, he began striding forward into the darkness, lifting the tip of the blade.

Light suddenly spilled across the floor from the stair tower’s door.

“Araciel? Did you find them?” Danti drew his sword and stepped in, looking around. Behind him, Albrecht lifted a lamp taken from the kitchen.

“The raven did fly past,” Araciel replied, closing his eyes a second against the light. “I thought … perhaps it did mean to lead me somewhere?”

“Playing with us.” Danti looked grim. “Let’s split up and make a quick search through this floor, and then go upstairs. Albrecht, we’ll take this hall and the west hall. Araciel, you and Father Völker take the east and north hall. Get a lamp from my studio. Check the rooms and meet back here. We don’t dare pass a room, in case Basti or Caterina are in one, too hurt to say anything.”

“If either be injured….” Araciel muttered, hand tightening on the hilt of his sowrd. Danti started to say something, then checked himself.

“Let’s go,” he said simply.

They were midway through the search when they heard a howl. Araciel froze, closing the door of another of the keep’s empty rooms, a dusty and abandoned conservatory.

“Danti! Know thee what that was?” he shouted.

“No!”

“I think –” Father Völker began, when the screaming began.

“That’s human!” Danti shouted.

“Basti!” Araciel cried out, horrified that his young friend might be injured.

He was the first up the stairs, Father Völker close behind him, holding the wildly flickering lamp in one hand. Leather soles sliding on the smooth wooden floor, the devil locked a hand on the doorjamb and looked wildly around the south hall of the third floor.

There was no sound besides his gasping breaths, no sign that Caterina was there. Seeing nothing, he turned and ran down the east hall, through the art gallery.

“Araciel, wait!” the priest panted, pausing a moment at the top of the stairs to catch his breath. Below him the door slammed as Danti and Albrecht started up after them.

Araciel wove through the art gallery from memory, avoiding the statues and chairs, his saber’s tip held low and to one side to avoid skewering a friend. Behind him light flickered, as Völker followed. He turned the corner, entering the north hall, the Gryphon hall.

“Caterina? Basti?”

No reply. He hesitated, while Völker caught up. The priest lifted the lamp up, over his shoulder.

A black powder stain marked the wall past the stair tower door, and beneath it was a broken lamp, in a circle of flameblackened flooring. Basti’s door hung open.

Araciel stepped forward, crouching to pick up the black, smoldering fur-lined cloak that lay on the floor. The style hadn’t been popular for nearly a century.

The children had fought back.

The lamp’s unsteady light glittered on the wall, and Araciel looked closer. Blood stained the wall, low. Cloth – clothes? – in the door to Basti’s room….

Something snarled.

He lifted his head, raising the saber he’d let sink. A wolf stepped from Caterina’s room, its ears back, head lowered, teeth bared.

“Get thee back to thy master,” Araciel whispered, not daring to use the old language, the words of creation, within the bounds of stone and wood.

The wolf whined, edging forward.

“Araciel!”

“Stay away!” Araciel shouted, recognizing Danti’s breathless voice. “There be a wolf here!”

“Araciel! Where’s Caterina?” Another voice, behind him this time, and Araciel didn’t risk the glance back. It was Albrecht.

“I know not,” Araciel said, his eyes fixed on the wolf. The beast hesitated as it saw the three appear through the east hall, one ear turning. “But she did fight the Erl King here, I believe.”

“Wasn’t young Sebastiano with her?” inquired the priest, as he stood nervously watching the apprentice crouch almost facetoface with the wolf.

“So I thought,” Araciel agreed, unmoving. As he stared into the wolf’s eyes, it froze, and he thought he understood.

Danti turned the corner, looking past Völker and Araciel. The wolf was large, its pelt fair and its eyes dark. The sculptor pushed Father Völker to one side, stepping up behind Araciel.

The devil flinched when the wolf suddenly moved, its ears snapping upright and its teeth bared. Before it could crouch to spring, Danti hurled past him, arms wrapping around the wolf’s middle. Man and beast smashed into the wall and bounced off, rolling.

“Danti!” They struggled on the floor in front of him, the wolf’s hind claws ripping Danti’s shirt as it tried to squirm out of his arms. As the creature began to slip free, Araciel reached out, grabbing its muzzle with both hands and twisting it to its back on the floor. Color drained from his face as the effort tore his wounded shoulder, but he resolutely held on.

Danti got to his knees, a flailing paw catching him across the cheek and drawing blood, then sat on the creature, trying to catch its front legs to hold them down.

“What now?” he gasped, fighting to keep the beast from throwing him off. “We can’t hold it forever!”

“I shall not kill an innocent creature!” Araciel said quickly, slipping one hand from its muzzle to hold its neck to the ground. “Harm him not!”

“If he were innocent,” Alrune pointed out, strolling up the hall, “the Erl King couldn’t have captured his soul.”

Araciel looked up at the dwarf, face drawn with frustrated anger.

“If all were innocent,” he shot back, “Christ need never have died on the cross.”

“I agree,” Alrune said with a shrug.

“Is it all right?” Father Völker asked, brushing past the dwarf and kneeling by the wolf’s head. Its eyes rolled, watching him.

“Better than we are, I think,” Danti said with a strained attempt at humor. Sweat ran down his face, and dark hair was stuck to his forehead. “We’ve got to do something with it, Father. Do you think you can change it back?”

For a moment the priest sat still, eyes on the wolf.

“Father,” Araciel said, voice low and urgent, “you must.”

Völker took a deep breath, looking up at the young apprentice. Araciel looked into the priest’s eyes and saw his troubled soul. Then his eyes rose to the room behind them, where a large four-poster bed stood in the middle of scuffed and broken chalk lines. A figure laid prone upon the blankets, face shadowed.

“Master Dietrich?” he asked softly. There was no reply.

The wolf suddenly thrashed, throwing Danti from its back. The sculptor twisted, trying to catch it as its paws scraped against the floor, as it lunged forward into Araciel’s chest.

“Araciel!” Albrecht pushed the priest aside, lifting the cleaver. Völker, halfrising, grabbed his arm.

“Don’t!” he shouted, trying to still the panicked cook.

Araciel’s free hand caught the wolf by the neck, his other hand remaining over its muzzle, holding it shut, as the wolf pressed against him, paws heavy against his velvet giaquetta. He felt it straining to slip from his grasp and strained back to hold it still. Hot breath blew against his face, and a low growl shook the air around them.

“Wouldst finish this, then?” he whispered, staring into its eyes. The wolf shuddered under his fingers. Araciel closed his eyes, sweat trickling down his pallored face. “You may yet have your chance.”

“Cry the dogs at him for the kill,” Alrune muttered, standing behind them all with a strange smile on his lips.

Danti scrambled to his feet, stepping past the wolf, and pulled the cleaver from Albrecht’s hand.

“He’s all right, calm down,” Danti said, pushing Albrecht back. The cook shuddered and looked at the wolf and Araciel, as if to make sure.

“I thought it was going to kill him,” he said, color rising in his cheeks.

“It’s all right.” Danti clapped him on the shoulder. “It was a brave thing to do. But he’s all right.” He handed the cleaver back.

Ignoring them, Father Völker knelt once more.

“Do you have him?” he asked. Araciel nodded, intent on holding the creature that hungered for his throat. Its sides heaved as it panted for breath against his hands.

“Very well.” The clergyman took a deep breath, crossed himself, and, holding the crucifix over the wolf, began to speak words memorized long, long ago.

“I exorcize thee, most vile spirit, the very embodiment of our enemy, the entire specter, the whole legion, in the name of Jesus Christ, to,” he solemnly crossed himself, “get out and flee from this creature of God.” He crossed himself twice more, as calmly as though he were safe in his own village church.

“He himself commands thee, who has ordered those cast down from the heights of heaven to the depths of the earth.”

Araciel closed his eyes and swallowed as the words shivered through him.

Unseeing, the priest continued.

“He commands thee, he who commanded the sea, the winds, and the tempests.

“Hear therefore and fear, O Satan, enemy of the faith, foe to the human race, producer of death, thief of life, destroyer of justice, root of evils, kindler of vices, seducer of men, betrayer of nations, inciter of envy, origin of avarice, cause of discord, procurer of sorrows. Why dost thou stand and resist, when thou knowest that Christ the Lord will destroy thy strength? Fear him who was immolated in Isaac, sold in Joseph, slain in the lamp, crucified in man, and then was triumphant over hell.”

“He has to stop,” Albrecht whispered.

Sweat poured down Araciel’s face as he felt the priest’s power piercing him.

Oblivious, Father Völker began to sign the cross over the cursed wolf’s head.

“Depart therefore in the name of the” the first cross, “Father, and of the” a second cross, “Son, and of the Holy,” a third cross, “Ghost; give place to the Holy Ghost, by the sign of the,” a fourth cross, and Araciel began to shake, fingers slipping from the wolf’s muzzle, and the wolf itself began a low, keening whine, “Cross of Jesus Christ our Lord, who with the Father and the same Holy Ghost liveth and reigneth one God, for ever and ever, world without end.”

“No!” Danti leaped forward as Araciel collapsed. The wolf sprang away, then stumbled and fell to the floor, howling.

Araciel fought to open his eyes and saw Father Völker looking from him to the wolf. The priest took a deep breath and continued.

“Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord, O Lord, hear my prayer. Let thine ears be inclined unto the voice of my supplication.” He crossed himself, looked up, and sketched the sign of the cross over the beast that writhed and twisted on the ground.

Araciel shuddered, feeling Danti’s and Albrecht’s hands on him.

“Father.” Danti’s grip tightened on Araciel’s arms, digging into the wounds from the night before. Araciel tried to speak, to protest. “Finish it.”

The elderly priest lifted his hand one last time, and sketched the cross over Araciel, as well.

Araciel convulsed. Something grabbed and yanked him, pulling him away, pulling hiim back. Everything went black.

“Well,” Alrune said, from a long way away, “that was certainly worth the wait.”

Caterina stopped at the bottom of the stairs, undecided, then turned and tore open the door to the inner courtyard of the keep.

The wind caught the door, ripping it from her hand and slamming it against the wall. She grabbed a lantern from the stair tower wall and stepped outside, wrestling the door closed again.

Outside had to be safer than in, if he was stalking the halls. But she knew it was only a moment’s respite. She leaned against the door, gasping and pulling Basti’s coat more closely around her. She had to go back inside, had to warn the others.

She had to find out what the Erl King had done to Basti.

For a moment she felt her throat tighten. There hadn’t been a choice, she told herself, fighting off tears. She’d had to run. There wouldn’t have been time to reload before the Erl King would have gotten them both.

Please, God, watch over him, she prayed. He put himself in danger to save me.

And he’s Araciel’s best friend.

With cold fingers she pulled the wheel lock back out from her belt and shook it, muzzle down. Bits of black floated out and were whipped away by the wind.

There had been a rod in the box. She searched the pouch hanging from Basti’s belt until she found it, then realized she had no cleaning rag. She set the lantern on the ground.

“Stupid,” she whispered to herself, feeling her fingers numbing from the cold. She crouched and used her teeth and nails to tear a strip of silk from the lining of her own skirts. She remained crouched by the door, where the storm couldn’t reach her, and began cleaning the barrel.

A gust of wind carried the sound of a flute, then whirled it away again.

“Naich?” She looked up, shaking windswept hair from her eyes. It couldn’t have come from the keep, not unless a window was open, and who’d open a window in this storm?

Then she heard horses whinnying and realized where he must be.

Skirts pulled aside with one hand, lantern held in the other, Caterina ran out of the courtyard toward the stables. The snow nearly blinded her until she was next to the building, and saw Naich surrounded by wolves, walking toward the front gate as he played.

“Naich?” she asked again, this time in wonder. Although she hadn’t thought he would hear her, the flautist turned, and nodded. The tunes were familiar, and she shook her head, unable to believe her ears. Children’s songs? Why children’s songs?

The wolves around his legs ignored her, pressing against him, urging him onward.

Astonished, she watched as he turned back around and walked to the front gate. He stopped, then, playing with his head cocked, as if considering the lock.

“You aren’t the Erl King,” Caterina said, watching him. “But you do know something, don’t you? Basti and Danti are right. Somehow, you’re as much a part of all this as the Erl King himself.”

What did it mean?

She summoned her courage, took a deep breath, and began walking forward, into the pack.

Naich stepped aside, his grey eyes fixed on her as he played.

The wolves snarled and moved away from her skirts. Their eyes gleamed as they watched her. She closed her eyes and remembered what her parents had taught her, remembered her mother’s stern advice.

“I’m the lady of this keep,” she said, raising her chin and facing him. “I want to know if you intend to endanger it or my guests, Herr Naich.”

The flautist looked at her, grey eyes seeming sad, then shook his head as he played.

“Are you going to the village?”

Again, he shook his head.

She frowned, trying to imagine where he might be headed in this weather, but the wolves that shifted and snarled around her skirt distracted her.

“Will you come back to the keep?”

He nodded this time. She clenched her fists to warm her fingers. Her eyes streaming from the bite of the wind. If only he could talk, to tell her what he was doing! What did he know?

“Should I stay with you?” she asked at last, looking up. Naich didn’t reply for a long moment, then slowly inclined his head again. Yes.

She looked around, at the wolves, at the storm, at herself in a man’s coat and a ripped skirt, slashed silk-topped shoes ridiculously inadequate for the snow, and felt a chill of apprehension. What if he only wanted to lead her out into the woods, and then order the wolves to rip her apart? Impatiently, she shoved the thought out of her mind. Naich might be mysterious, but he wasn’t a threat, not standing there playing children’s music on the flute, leading the Erl King’s own hunting beasts away from their master.

“Will it be long?” she asked. Again Naich hesitated, then shook his head. No.

“All right.” She reached up and unlocked the gates, and staggered as the wolves rushed through. Naich lowered the flute from his lips at last, and pointed to the gate.

“Do you want them closed again?” she asked, looking up at him. He took her arm, guiding her outside the keep grounds. The wolves had vanished into the forest, gone. She wondered why they’d left, and whether it was the Erl King’s intention that they go.

Naich pointed.

The stone gate posts? She squinted to see them well through the storm, lifting her lantern. The snow had caked over one side of them, and the light played shadows over the wolves etched in the stone.

“The wolves?” she asked, trying to guess what it was the flautist was trying to tell her.

Naich reached inside his collar and pulled out a silver chain. As Caterina watched, confused, he removed the necklace and its pendant, offering it to her.

“What is it?” She took it with her free hand, holding the pendant to the light.

It was no pendant, but a very worn gold signet ring, sized for a man, bearing a rampant wolf. She had seen the device before, on the gate posts that loomed over her and on the ruined church in the valley below.

It was the signet of Gestern.

“Is it yours?” she whispered, shaken. Naich slowly nodded.

“Then you’re the heir to the keep. One of your ancestors died there, and you’re the last in the line of Gestern.” She looked up at him, certain her guess was the right one. Did he want his place back after all these years, then?

But he shook his head, touched the ring, touched his chest.

“I don’t understand.” She clutched the ring in her fist, chain dangling in the wind, as she stared up at the graying composer. “What do you want?”

Naich lowered his head, stepping away from her. When he looked up again, his grey eyes fastened on hers, and held them.

His hands rose, and pulled off the somber black giaquetta, then the grey and silver doublet. The freezing wind tugged at his shirt, and snow swirled around him.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

Fingers tore at the silk shirt, pulling it over his head.

“You’re mad!” She backed up, back striking the gate post, and fumbled in the coat pocket for her pistol. Hand trembling, she pulled it out, setting the lantern by her feet.

He was pulling off his boots. She began to load. Powder, wad, ball. Key. Powder in pan.

She glanced up, then down again, her face burning. Naich stood unclothed in the storm, flute clutched in one hand, clothes strewn around him. He still watched her. What did he want?

She resolutely looked up again, cocking the pistol and aiming at his bare chest.

And screamed.