Children of the Wolves by Jessica Starre

since they didn’t understand her purpose, just that any excuse for a feast was a good one. Bertha and her helpers had transformed the dining hall while most of the villagers attended the meeting, the last blossoms of the wildflowers cut and strewn about the tables, a barrel of ale rolled into a corner and tapped, the cellar raided for jugs of last year’s best wine, the kitchens put to the task of providing a short-notice feast — not that Bertha would ever be taken by surprise, as she would tell you herself.
    Michael came into the kitchen with a basket of apples. Bertha cast an eye over them and sniffed.
    â€œI’m surprised that girl has the strength to stand up,” she said. “Nibbling on fruit and bread all day long, never a bit of meat.”
    â€œShe wouldn’t mind a vegetable,” Michael said, dumping the apples into the sink for rinsing.
    â€œVegetables,” Bertha said darkly.
    â€œYou seem to have everything well in hand,” Michael said, glancing around the kitchen. A helper stirring something at the big black stove caught his eye. She flushed pink, turning away quickly.
    â€œI knew we’d be celebrating an awakening soon,” Bertha said. She didn’t add, but Michael knew, that she’d thought it would be Jelena’s. So had he. “I would have been shamed beyond endurance to celebrate an awakening with nothing more than day old bread and a pound of moldy cheese.”
    Michael let out a shout of laughter. “When has your kitchen ever had just day old bread and moldy cheese?”
    Bertha waved a wooden spoon at him. “Take heed, young man. This is as a kitchen should be. I’ll not be having this place fall into disarray when I’m gone.”
    â€œYou won’t gone for a good number of years yet,” Michael said.
    Bertha just shook her head, turned, and said something to a helper, who scampered off on an errand.
    She had ordered a pig butchered, probably over Colin’s objections, and it was now out roasting in the courtyard. The stinging smoke from the fire wafted in through the open windows. Giving Bertha a quick hug, Michael abandoned the kitchen to take a turn along the outer fence. He saw that several of the helpers were outside, wetting down the roof so a stray spark from the roasting fire wouldn’t cause a catastrophe. They and the Sentries stood alert for the smallest unfamiliar sight or sound.
    The warlike tribes found it most fruitful to attack when celebrations were underway. Cunning, they were, slaughtering their enemies as they made merry. The Wudu-faesten had suffered such attacks in the past — fewer since the riders had begun training with the Trinitarians, their sometime allies to the south. But even so a current of tension underlay every celebration.
    The Wudu-faesten had no more wealth than the surrounding tribes. They just seemed richer. They didn’t fight others, they gave generously to those in need, they fed and sheltered the unawakened among them. The outsiders thought they must have Awakened someone who had led them to riches, but they couldn’t imagine whom — or what. The Umluans had awakened a miner who showed them how to strip gold from the mountains, but the other tribes had laughed when they saw the soft metal, too pliable for any practical use, too ugly for any decorative purpose. The Umluans had hanged the miner. Fortunately, they had awakened an executioner in time.
    It was a puzzle how the Wudu-faesten could be so well-fed and so secure, a puzzle that other tribes attempted to solve through swift, destructive raids, knowing the chance of reprisal was slight. The Wudu-faesten had never awakened a warrior.

Chapter Six
    â€œQuite a performance at meeting today,” Jelena said to Michael, when he came in from checking the village security to join her at table.
    He smiled at her and said, “Ritual is important, you know. People need ritual.”
    Something stirred in