Read The Silver Wolf Online

Authors: Alice Borchardt

The Silver Wolf

“A VERY VIVIDLY
WRITTEN STORY. I REALLY GOT INTO IT.”


M
ARION
Z
IMMER
B
RADLEY
Author of the
New York Times
bestseller
The Mists of Avalon

“A writer with the vision and scope to conjure up her own thrilling mythos and the craftsmanship to render it in breathtaking, shimmering prose.… In this hypnotic novel, the decadence and splendor of ancient Rome comes vividly to life through a character as enigmatic as my very own Lestat.… [
The Silver Wolf
is] peopled with characters that beckon to the deepest reaches of our souls.”

—A
NNE
R
ICE

“A love story tinged with the supernatural … Borchardt’s sensual prose and period detail provide a lush setting for her tale of a woman struggling to reconcile her human and wolf natures. Fans of Anne Rice and Tanith Lee should enjoy this historic fantasy.”

—Library Journal

“Top-flight fantasy … Borchardt reaches descriptive and dramatic peaks with Regeane’s vulpine supersenses as she noses about Rome by night, reading the dead city’s skin and air.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“INTRIGUES AND COUNTERPLOTS ABOUND …

In Regeane, whose woman and wolf selves often spar contentiously with one another, Borchardt finds the perfect metaphor for the once opulent Roman civilization, now hostage to its bestial appetites … Readers who like their fantasy dusted with gritty realism … will find themselves indulged with more than a few twists to this werewolf tale.”

—Publishers Weekly

“[A] carefully crafted tale, which brims with unique characters and a mesmerizing plot … [Borchardt] lures readers into a decadent society filled with brutality and ruthless scheming. You become a part of the story due to her incredible ability to re-create a time and place with astounding, vibrant imagery. This is the book Ms. Borchardt was meant to write.”

—Romantic Times

“A wonderful setting, rich in irony … Borchardt masterfully places the reader squarely amidst a Rome devastated by invasion, inflation, poverty, decadence, and religio-political squabbling.”

—Book Page

“SENSUAL, HAUNTING, VIVID, EROTIC, HYPNOTIC … DARK, LYRICAL, AND PASSIONATE …

Every single Anne Rice fan in the world is going to want to read this book … A huge novel packed full of decadently intriguing characters, heart-wrenching romance, and sublime sensuality the likes of which I haven’t read since A. N. Roquelaure’s
Beauty
trilogy. I was crying like a baby when I finished this book. Great ending! I loved it!”

—Explorations

“Borchardt has written a winner … This is fantasy at its best … Vivid and engaging … 
The Silver Wolf
is a richly textured, lush epic of history, romance, and fantasy, all interwoven like a beautiful tapestry. This is a novel not to be missed … Like
The Vampire Lestat
 … 
[The Silver Wolf]
is ripe and delicious in its panoramic view of history and the fantastic beings who inhabit it … I loved this book, and for those who relish a swashbuckling story of the supernatural, Alice Borchardt delivers. Her history is colorful and lively, and her supernatural love story is enchanting. Highly recommended.”

—D
OUGLAS
C
LEGG
barnesandnoble.com

PRAISE FOR ALICE BORCHARDT’S PREVIOUS NOVEL
DEVOTED

“A gem! This saga of witches, warriors, romance, and sex will hold you in thrall.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“Haunting … A powerful brew of compelling love, chilling evil, wry wit, and mystical promise.”

—S
TELLA
C
AMERON

“Fabulous! Original and romantic.”

—L
AURA
K
INSALE

“Alice Borchardt is a joy to read. Her characters move you to laughter and tears, break your heart, and make you want to hug them.”

—S
USAN
W
IGGS

“Each lyrical word fairly seethes with emotional intensity and sensuality, mysticism and grand heroics.”

—P
ENELOPE
W
ILLIAMSON

“LOVE AND TREACHERY … MARVELOUS …

Alice leads us into the irresistible atmosphere of the Dark Ages, into a vivid and deliciously violent realm of battles, love, and tragic entanglements.”

—A
NNE
R
ICE

“A remarkable, compelling novel of medieval France … filled with humor, action, and romance.”

—Library Journal

“Captivating … A feisty mix of old-world adventure and charm.”

—Los Angeles Times

“Exciting, vivid, and satisfying.”

—San Jose Mercury News

“An absolutely scrumptious story, the kind that would make any lover of historical fiction purr like a cat.”

—M
ARION
Z
IMMER
B
RADLEY

Published by Ballantine Books:

DEVOTED

BEGUILED

THE SILVER WOLF
*

NIGHT OF THE WOLF
*

THE WOLF KING
*

THE DRAGON QUEEN
*

THE RAVEN WARRIOR
*

*
Published by Ballantine/Del Rey Books

A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1998 by Alice Borchardt

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada, Limited, Toronto.

Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

www.ballantinebooks.com

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-93999

eISBN: 978-0-345-45552-9

v3.1

TO
MY BELOVED HUSBAND
CLIFFORD BORCHARDT
“See those fireflies dancing? That’s what I want to do: dance in the moonlight, sing
to the stars, jump straight up at the moon.”
I did with you.

Contents
I

THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN. THE FIERY CIRCLE shone past the acanthus-crowned columns of a ruined temple. They cut the incandescent ball into slices of red radiance.
Almost night
, the girl thought, then shivered in the chill autumn air blowing through the unglazed casement.

The window was barred—heavily barred. One set running horizontally, the other vertically. The bars were bolted into the stone walls of the tiny room.

She knew she could close the window. Reach out through the bars. Pull the heavy shutters shut, and seal them with the iron bolt. But she pushed the idea out of her mind with a sort of blind obstinacy. The sight of freedom, even an unattainable freedom, was too sweet to give up.

Not yet
, she told herself,
only a little longer. Not yet
.

The air that raised gooseflesh on her arms was sweet to her nostrils. Oh no, more than sweet. A speaking thing. Each vagrant increase in flow, each slight change in direction, each passing movement sent images to the deepest part of her mind.

Somewhere a patch of thyme bloomed. The tiny blue flowers let down their fragrance into the chill evening air. This delicate scent was mixed with the heavy smell of wet marble and granite. These and many others stood out against the tapestry of odors given off by the flowers and greenery that cloaked the ruined palaces and temples of the ancient imperium.

The vast restless spirit of this, the greatest of all empires, seemed at last brought to rest at the soft hand of the great green mother herself.

Regeane didn’t know what she’d expected of the once-proud
mistress of the world when she’d come to Rome. Certainly not what she found.

The inhabitants, descendants of a race of conquerors, lived like rats squabbling and polluting the ruins of an abandoned palace. Oblivious to the evidence of grandeur all around them, they fought viciously among themselves for what wealth remained. Indeed, little was left of the once-vast river of gold that flowed into the eternal city. The gold that could be found gilded the palms of papal officials and the altars of the many churches.

Regeane’s mother, desperate to save—as she saw it—her daughter’s soul, pawned what few jewels she had left. The money was sufficient to pay the bribes necessary to obtain a papal audience and finance the equally expensive papal blessing.

Regeane had gone into the awesome presence, her body drenched in a sweat of terror. If her ailing mother said the wrong thing to the church’s leading prelate, she might find herself being burned or stoned as a witch. But as she approached the supreme pontiff, she realized just how foolish her fears had been.

The man before her was a ruin. Ready to be taken by age and sorrow. She doubted if he understood much of anything said to him. Weeping, her mother implored the intercession of God’s chief minister on earth with the Almighty. As the ever-dutiful Regeane knelt, kissed the silken slipper, and felt the withered hands pressed against her hair she caught a whiff of a scent other than the thick smell of incense and Greek perfume that pervaded the room: the musty, dry smell of aging flesh and human decay.

God, it was powerful.
He is ready to die
, she thought.
He will go speak on Mother’s behalf to God in person very soon
. She knew this blessing, as all other blessings her mother, Gisela, had traveled so far and squandered so much of her wealth to gain, would do no good.

This was the end. Regeane knew it. She was frightened. If the pope himself could not lift this strange gesa from her and let her live as a woman, to what earthly power could she turn? More to the point, to what power could her mother turn?

Gisela was fading as quickly as the only-too-human man on
the chair of Peter. Though a comparatively young woman, she was worn down by the string of fruitless journeys she had taken with Regeane and by some secret sorrow that seemed to fill her mind and heart with a bottomless wellspring of grief.

Regeane lied. Her mother believed. And for the first time in many years, Regeane felt the tiny woman who had traveled so far and borne so many burdens was at peace. Regeane’s lie carried Gisela through till the end.

Three days after the papal audience she had gone to awaken her mother and found Gisela would never wake again. Not in this world.

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