Free Children of the Wolves by Jessica Starre Page B

beard more vigorously. “Worth a man’s life to trade with the Sithans,” he said.
    Jelena smiled faintly. “Why not store them for a while?” she asked. To take precipitate action might not be best for the people. They needed to consider what this meant and how it would affect them. They needed to discuss among themselves what they wanted. But before she could make this point, she heard the stump of elder Cara behind her. Everyone in the dining hall fell quiet as the old woman strode forward, her cane thumping the ground as she moved.
    Teresa followed, simpering, in her wake. The cold calculating malice of Teresa chilled Jelena and she was no more reassured by the acquisitive gleam she saw in the elder’s eye. She knew that her sensible suggestions would never be heard. If the Cara had access to something that the Sithans did not, her prestige would rise considerably among the tribes. And Cara, the leader of the people, had only one thing left to covet, and that was status.

Chapter Four
    Later that evening, the storyteller collected his lute from his apprentice — all of his apprentices seemed to be young, blue-eyed, blonde girls, but no one ever held that against him — and found a comfortable spot in the courtyard where he began strumming under the silvery stars. Though the night was warm, a slight breeze made sitting and listening reasonably comfortable and the people set aside their occupations to listen to him.
    The kitchen helpers placed smudge pots around the courtyard to keep the insects down and stood by, tending to them while listening. Bertha tapped a barrel of ale and villagers filled their mugs, the cool refreshment a fitting accompaniment to the entertainment. The whole village — more than one hundred in all — gathered in the courtyard as the storyteller fingered his lute and began singing a few old songs.
    Jelena shook her head when a helper held out a mug to her. When she felt this upset and out of sorts, ale was not what she needed to regain her composure. Michael stood near, just a step to the right of her and while it might appear he was watching the storyteller, she knew he kept a careful eye on her.
    Viktor gave her a vague nod before sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of the storyteller and closing his eyes to listen to the music the storyteller made, so different from his own, yet capturing the same sense of loss and longing.
    The storyteller intoned the words mournfully. The lute echoed quietly in the night. The villagers turned to the storyteller as they always did and said in wondering voices, “What does it mean?” and the storyteller smiled and said, “It is a spiritual song,” and so they turned to Michael and asked, “What does it mean?” And he spoke to them of the Way and of fate and how each person had to choose the path that would save his soul. At this the unawakened moved uncomfortably in their spots and looked away from the other tribe members; how could they have souls if they had no pastself, no memory? How could they choose when they were not chosen? They were nothing, less than nothing. They may have been saved but they were doomed. What could the makers have intended?
    After a moment, Michael gestured to the storyteller to continue, and the old man changed chords and began to tell the Beginning.
    â€œAnd when the makers saw that the Great Disaster was at hand, they gathered up people of every kind — men and women of all ages and sizes, shapes and races; physicians and artists, farmers and fishmongers. But they saved wisely. They did not to gather up people who disobeyed the laws of community. People who would steal from the community. People who would raise a hand to one another — ” Here, as usual, gasps rose from the gathered group; they could not really believe that such a world had ever existed.
    The storyteller lowered his voice to a thrilling tone: “People who would murder one