For all appearances, it resembled any modern campsite—except for the enchantress who stood behind the fire stirring her brew. The first born without the ability to shift, but like the ruby-throated hummingbird, she had proven her worth and flown the distance on the wings of another power. Enchantress, sorceress, healer, midwife—witch; no matter the title, Maelorwen owned them all. And yet with all that potency she had not been able to cure her own curse, or her daughter’s—divine proof that their wolves came from a power beyond her reach. Maelorwen’s healed visage surprised Pendaran. Not because of her inability to call her wolf—she could have healed her skin with magic at any point—but because she held her secrets close and her power unknown . . . unless crossed. She reveled in anonymity, welcomed the scars that hid her identity. Indeed, her healing held a signature of a sweeter gift from a kinder, less secretive heart. Obviously not Mae’s; no doubt she had not been pleased.
