Excerpt from THROUGH WOLF'S EYES
by Jane Lindskold.
Published by Tor Books in August, 2001. Copyright ©
2001 by Jane Lindskold. All rights reserved. No part of this
text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without written permission of the Publisher.
Exceptions are made for downloading this file to a computer for
personal use.
(These exerpts are based on uncorrected proofs and may slightly differ from the published version of the novel.)
= I =
Aaa-rooo! Aaa-rooo!
Distant, yet carrying, the
wolf's howl broke the late afternoon stillness.
In the depths of the forest,
a young woman, as strong and supple as the sound, rose
noiselessly to her feet. With bloodstained fingers, she pushed
her thick, dark-brown hair away from her ears to better hear the
call.
Aaa-rooo! Aaa-rooo!
It was a sentry howl, relayed
from a great distance to the east. The young woman understood
its message more easily than she would have understood any form
of human speech.
"Strangers! Strangers!
Strangers! Strange!"
The last lilt of inflection
clarified the previous howls. Whatever was coming from the east
was not merely a trespasser -- perhaps a young wolf dispersing
from his birth pack -- but an unknown quantity. But from the
relay signal that preceded the call, the strangers were far
away.
The young woman felt a momentary
flicker of curiosity. Hunger, however, was more pressing. The
cold times were not long past and her memories of dark, freezing
days, when even the stupid fish were unreachable beneath the ice,
were sharp.
She squatted again and continued
skinning a still warm rabbit, musing, not for the first time, how
much more convenient it would be if she could eat it as her
kinfolk did: fur, bone, flesh, and guts all in one luxurious
mouthful.
* * * * *
Aaa-rooo! Aaa-rooo!
Derian Carter, the youngest member
of Earl Kestrel's expedition, felt his shoulder jerked nearly out
of its socket when the wolf howl pierced the late afternoon
peace. The haunting sound startled the sensitive chestnut mare
he was unbridling nearly out of her highly bred stockings.
"Easy, easy, Roanne," he murmured
mechanically, all too aware that his own heart was racing. That
wolf sounded close!
As Derian eased the mare's
headstall over ears that couldn't seem to decide whether to prick
in alarm or flatten in annoyance, he said in a voice he was
pleased to discover remained calm, almost nonchalant:
"That sounds like a big wolf out
there, Race."
Race Forester, the guide for Earl
Kestrel's expedition, looked down his long nose at the younger
man and chuckled. He was a lean fellow with a strong, steady
tread that spoke of long distances travelled afoot and blond hair
bleached so white by constant exposure to the sun that he would
look much the same at sixty as he did at thirty.
"That it does, Derian." Race
stroked his short but full beard as he glanced around their
sheltered forest camp, systematically noting the areas that would
need to be secured now that big predators were about. "Wolves
always sound bigger when you're on their turf, rather than safe
behind a city wall."
Derian swallowed a retort. In the
weeks since Earl Kestrel's expedition had departed the capitol of
Hawk Haven, Race had rarely missed an opportunity to remind the
members (other than the earl himself) that Race himself was the
woodsman, while they were mere city folk. Only the fact that
Race's contempt was so generally administered had kept Derian
from calling him out and showing him that a city bred man could
know a thing or two.
Only that, Derian admitted honestly
(though only to himself), and the fact that Race would probably
turn Derian into a smear on the turf. Though Derian Carter was
tall enough to need to duck his head going through doorways,
muscular enough to handle the most spirited horse or work from
dawn to dusk loading and unloading wagons at his father's
warehouses, there was something about Race Forester's sinewy
form, about the way he carried his slighter build that made
Derian doubt who would be the winner in a hand to hand fight.
And, with an another surge of
honesty, Derian admitted that the woodsman had earned the right
to express his contempt. Race was good at what he did -- many
said the best in both Hawk Haven and their rival kingdom of
Bright Bay. What was Derian Carter in comparison? Well-trained,
but untried.
Derian would never have admitted
that before they set out -- knowing himself good with a horse or
an account book or even with his fists -- but a few things had
been hammered into his red head since they left the capitol,
things that hadn't been all that much fun to learn, and Derian
didn't plan to forget them now.
So Derian swallowed his retort and
continued removing the tack from the six riding horses. To his
right, burly Ox, his road-grown beard incongruously black against
pink, round cheeks, was heaving the packs from the four mules.
When another long, eerie wolf's howl caused the nearest mule to
kick back at the imagined danger, Ox blocked the kick rather than
dodging.
That block neatly summed up why Ox
was a member of the expedition. Even tempered, like most big men
who have never been forced to fight, Ox had made his recent
living in the Hawk Haven military. During the current lull in
hostilities, however, he had left the military to serve as Earl
Kestrel's bodyguard.
Ox's birth name, Derian had learned
to his surprise, was Malvin Hogge.
"But no-one's called me that since
long before my hair started retreating," he'd told Derian,
rubbing ruefully where his curly hairline was making an
undignified and premature retreat. "But I prefer the name that
my buddies in Kestrel Company gave me long ago and, strangely
enough, no one ever calls me 'Malvin' twice."
Unlike Derian, Ox felt no
inordinate awe toward Race Forester, aware that in his own way he
was as valuable as the guide. How many men could shift a
battering ram by themselves or do the work of three packers?
"Think that wolf wants us for
dinner?" Ox asked Race in his deep-voiced, ponderous way.
"Hardly," the guide retorted
scornfully. "We're too big a group and wolves, savage as they
are, are not stupid."
"Well," Ox replied, laughing at his
own joke, "you'd better tell the mules that. I don't think they
understand."
Sir Jared Surcliffe, a lesser
member of Earl Kestrel's own family, but prouder of his recently
acquired nickname "Doc" than of any trace of noble blood, crossed
to claim the general provisions bundle. Like the earl he had
black hair and clear, grey eyes, but his height and build lacked
the earl's seeming delicacy. There was strength in his
long-fingered hands -- as Derian had learned when Jared stitched
a cut in his forearm a couple of weeks back. Derian recalled
that Doc had won honors in battle, so he must have other
strengths as well.
"Valet has the fire started," Jared
said, an upper class accent giving his simple statement unwonted
authority. "I'll start dinner. Race, shouldn't you see if there
might be a fish or two in yonder brook? Earl Kestrel would enjoy
fresh trout with his dinner."
Had anyone but Jared or the earl
himself even hinted at giving the guide orders, he might have
found himself standing a late-night watch on an anthill. Race
Forester, though, for all his pride in his skills, knew when he
could -- and could not -- push his social betters.
"Right," he grunted and departed,
whistling for Queenie, his bird dog. The red-spotted hound
reluctantly abandoned the station near the fire from which she'd
been watching Earl Kestrel's man unpack the delicacies kept for
the earl's own consumption.
When the wolf howled again, Derian
wondered how much of Queenie's reluctance was due to leaving the
food and how much to the proximity of the big predator.
"They say that the wolves in the
mountains are bigger than anything found in settled lands,"
Derian said, talking to distract himself and feeling freer to
speculate now that Race was gone.
"They do," Doc agreed, "but I've
always wondered, just who has seen these giant wolves? Few
people have gone beyond the foothills of the Iron Mountains --
those mostly miners and trappers. As far as I know, the only
ones to have crossed the range are Prince Barden and those who
went with him."
Derian finished currying Roanne and
moved to the earl's Coal before answering.
"Maybe in the early days," he
hazarded, "when the colonies were new. Maybe people saw the
wolves then."
"Possibly," Jared said agreeably,
shaping a journey cake on its board. "And possibly it's all
grandmother's fire stories. Race is right. Wolves and other
night creatures do sound bigger when you're camping."
Conversation lagged as the members
of the expedition hurried to complete their chores before the
last of the late spring light faded. Part of the reason Earl
Kestrel had planned his journey for this time of year was that
the days would be growing longer, but after hours spent riding on
muddy trails, the evenings seemed brief enough.
Cool, too, Derian thought, blowing
on his fingers as he measured grain for the mules and horses.
Winter may be gone, but she's not letting us forget her just
yet.
Ox, who had finished putting up the
tents and was now effortlessly chopping wood, paused, his axe in
the air.
"If you're cold, Derian, you can
help me chop this wood. You know what they say, 'Wood warms you
twice: once in the cutting, once in the burning.'"
Derian grinned at him. "No thanks.
I've enough else to finish. Do you think we'll get snow tonight?
The air almost has the scent of it."
Ox shrugged, measuring his answer
out between the blows of his axe. "The mountains do get snow,
even this late in the year, but I hope we're not in for any. A
blackberry winter's all we need."
Derian frowned thoughtfully. "At
home I'd say snow would be a good thing for business. It's
easier to move goods by sled and people by sleigh, but out here,
on horseback... I could do without the snow."
"We won't have snow," announced
Race, re-entering the camp from the forest fringe. Three long,
shining river trout dangled from one hand. "The smoke's rising
straight off the fires. Clear but cold tonight. Derian, you
might want to break out your spare blankets."
Derian nodded. He'd slept cold one
night out of a stubborn desire to show himself as tough as the
woodsman and had been stiff and nearly useless the next morning.
Earl Kestrel himself had chided him for foolish pride.
"Our mission is too important to be
trifled with," Kestrel had continued in his mincing way. "Mind
that you listen to Race Forester's advice from hereon."
And Derian had nodded and
apologized, but in his heart he wondered. Just how important was
this mission? King Tedric had seemed content enough these dozen
years not knowing his son's fate. And Prince Barden had shown no
desire to contact the king.
Earl Kestrel had been the one to
decide that knowing what had happened to the disinherited prince
was important -- Kestrel said for the realm, but Derian suspected
that the information was important mostly for how it would affect
the earl's private ambitions.
* * * * *
The young woman was bathing when a
thin, tail-chewed female informed her that the One Male wanted
her at the Den. The messenger, a yearling who had barely made it
through her first winter, cringed and groveled as she delivered
her message.
"When shall I say you will come
before him, Firekeeper?" the she-wolf concluded, using the name
most of the wolves called the woman -- a name indicating a
measure of respect, for even the Royal Wolves feared fire.
Firekeeper tossed a fat chub to the
Whiner. She certainly wasn't going to have time to eat it, not
if she must run all the way to the Den. Ah, well! She could
catch more fish later.
"Tell him," she said, considering,
"I will be there as fast as two feet can carry me."
"Slow enough," sneered the Whiner,
emboldened as she remembered how all but the fattest pups could
outrun the two-legged wolf.
Firekeeper snatched a stone from
the bank and, swifter than even the Whiner's paranoia, threw it
at the wolf's snout.
"Ai-eee!"
"That might have been your skull,"
the woman reminded her. "Go, bone-chewer. My feet may be slow,
but my belly is full with the meat of my own hunting!"
A lip-curling snarl before the
Whiner vanished into the brush showed that the insult had gone
home. Faintly, Firekeeper could hear the retreat of her running
paws.
Her own departure would be less
swift. Bending at the waist, she shook the water from her
close-cropped hair then smoothed the locks down, pressing out
more water as she did so.
Even before her hair had stopped
dripping down her back, Firekeeper had retrieved her most
valuable possession from where she had set it on a flat rock near
the water. It was a fang made of some hard, bright stone. With
it, she could kill almost as neatly as a young wolf, skin her
prey, sharpen the ends of sticks, and perform many other useful
tasks. The One Male of her youngest memories had given it to her
when he knew he was going into his last winter.
"These are used by those such as
yourself, Little Two-legs," he had said fondly, "since they lack
teeth or claws useful for hunting. I remember how they are used
and can tutor you some, but you will need to discover much for
yourself."
She had accepted the Fang and the
leather Mouth in which it slept. At first she had hung them from
a thong about her neck, but later, when she had learned more
about their uses, she had contrived a way to hang them from a
belt around her waist. Only when she was bathing, for the Fang
hated water, did she take it off.
Now she held the tool in her teeth
while she reached for the cured hide she had hung in a tree lest
those like the Whiner chew it to shreds. Most hides she couldn't
care less about but this one, taken from an elk killed for the
purpose, was special.
Out of the center she had cut a
hole for her head, wide enough not to chafe her neck. The rest
of the skin hung front and back, protecting her most vulnerable
parts. A belt made from strips of hide kept the garment in place
and she had trimmed away the parts that interfered with free
movement of her arms.
Some of the young wolves had
laughed when she had contrived her first hide, but she had
disregarded their taunts. The wolves had fur to protect
themselves from brambles and sticks. She must borrow from the
more fortunate or be constantly bleeding from some scrape. An
extra skin was welcome, too, against the chill.
In the winter, she tied rabbit
skins along her legs and arms with the fur next to her flesh.
The skins were awkward, often slipping or falling off, but were
still far better than frostbite.
Later in the year, when the days
grew hotter and the hide stifling, Firekeeper would wear only a
shorter bit of leather around her waist, relinquishing some
protection for comfort.
Lastly, Firekeeper hung around her
neck a small bag containing the special stones with which she
could strike fire. She valued these less than the Fang, but
without their power she could not have survived this winter or
others before it.
Faintly, Firekeeper remembered when
she did not live this way, when she wore something softer and
more yielding than hides, when winters were warmer. Almost, she
thought, those memories were a dream, but it was a dream that
seemed strangely close as she ran to where the One Male awaited
her.
The One Male was a big silver-grey
wolf with a dark streak running along his spine to the tip of his
tail and a broad white ruff. He was the third of that title
Firekeeper could remember and had held the post for only two
years. His predecessor would have dominated the pack longer
except for a chance stumble in front of an elk during a hunt in
mid-winter along an icy lake shore.
The current One Male was accepted
by the One Female, who had led the pack alone through the
remainder of that winter until the mating season early the
following spring. Competition for her had been fierce and one
contender had been killed. A second chose exile rather than live
beneath his pack mate's rule.
Yet the diminished pack had fared
well, perhaps because of, rather than despite, the losses. Fewer
wolves meant fewer ways to split the food. New pups had since
grown to fill the gaps and the Ones reign over a fine pack eight
adults strong -- with a single strange, two-legged, not-quite
wolf to round out the group.
Although she remembered when both
had been fat, blue-eyed, round-bellied puppies, Firekeeper
thought of both the One Male and the One Female as older than
herself. However, though the human had more years than the
wolves, the reality was that they were adults while she, when
judged by her abilities rather than her years, was a pup.
Indeed, she might always be a pup -- a thing she regarded with
some dissatisfaction during rare, idle moments.
When she loped into the flat,
bone-strewn area outside of the den, the One Male was waiting for
her. None of the rest of the pack was visible.
The One Female was within the cave
nearby, occupied with her new-born pups. The day for them to be
introduced to the rest of their family was close and Firekeeper
warmed in pleasant anticipation. Already she knew that there
were six pups, all apparently healthy, but everything else about
them was kept a guarded secret until the great event of
Emergence.
Seeing Firekeeper -- though
doubtless he had heard her arrive -- the One Male rose to his
feet. She ran to within a few paces, then dropped onto all
fours. When he permitted her to approach, she stroked her
fingers along his jaw, mimicking a puppy's begging.
Tail wagging gently, the One Male
drew his lips back from his teeth as if regurgitating -- though
he did not actually do so. All spare food these days went to the
One Female and the pups. Firekeeper, who had been made hungry by
her swim followed by a swift run, was rather sorry. Many times
during the past winter meat had been carried to her from a kill
too distant for her to reach before the scavengers would have
stripped it.
"You summoned me, Father?" she
asked, sitting back on her haunches now that the greeting ritual
was completed.
The One Male wagged his tail, then
sat beside her, tacitly inviting her to throw an arm around him
and scratch between his ears.
"Yes, Little Two-legs, I did. Did
you hear the message howl some while ago?"
"Stranger! Stranger! Stranger!
Strange!" she repeated softly by way of answer. "From the east,
I thought."
"Yes, all the way from the gap in
the mountains, not far from where you came to us."
Firekeeper nodded. She knew the
place. There was good hunting in those meadows come late summer
when the young deer grew foolish and their mothers careless.
There was also a burned place, overgrown now, but hiding black
ash and hard-burnt wood beneath the vines and grasses. Every
year when the pack hunted in that region the Ones told her how
she had come from the burned place and reminded her of her
heritage.
"I remember the place," Firekeeper
answered, mostly because she knew the One would want to hear
confirmation, not because she thought he needed it.
"The Strangers Strange are
two-legs, like yourself," the One continued. "A falcon has been
following them by day and she relays through our scouts that the
two-legs go to the Burnt Place, seeking those who were there
before I was born."
"Oh!" Firekeeper gasped softly.
Then a question drew a line between her dark, dark eyes. "How
does the falcon know where they are going?"
"When this falcon was young she was
taken from the air while on migration," the One explained. "I
don't know how it was done, but the Mothers of her people say it
was so and I believe them."
"Like knows like best," Firekeeper
said, repeating a wolf proverb.
"Remember that," the One Male said,
then returned to his explanation. "This falcon lived for a time
with the two-legs and hunted for them. During that time, she
learned something of their speech -- far more than the few words
they used to address her. From their speech and from the
direction they are heading, she believes that these two-legs are
not hunters come for a short time to take furs."
"The wrong time for that game,
certainly," Firekeeper said. "Your coats are shedding now and
make me sneeze."
"That is why those fingers of yours
feel so good," the One Male admitted. "Pull out the mats as you
find them."
"Only if you remember," she teased
with mock hauteur, "not to bite off my hand!"
"I promise," he said with sudden
solemnity. "As all of us have promised not to harm our strange
little sister."
Made uneasy by this change of mood,
Firekeeper occupied herself tugging out a mat, worrying the
undercoat loose with dexterous ease.
"Why did you summon me to tell me
of the two-legs?" she asked at last. "I know less of them than
the falcons do. They are strangers to me. The wolves are my
people."
"Always," the One Male promised
her, "but since before I was born each One has told those who may
follow that there is a trust held by our pack for you. When your
people return, we have sworn to bring you back to them. It is an
ancient trust, given, so our tales say, to your own mother."
Firekeeper was silenced by
astonishment. Then she blurted out indignantly:
"I was never told of this!"
"You," the One Male said gently,
"have never been considered old enough to know. Only those who
may one day lead the pack are told of this trust, so that they
may vow to keep it in their turn."
The human admitted the justice of
this, but hot tears of frustration and anticipated grief burn in
her eyes.
"What if I want nothing of this
trust, given to a mother I cannot remember?"
"You will always be a wolf,
Firekeeper," the One Male said. "Meet the two-legs. Learn of
them. If you do not care for their ways, come back to the pack.
A wise wolf," he continued, quoting another proverb, "scouts the
prey, knows when to hunt, when to stay away."
"If I did less," Firekeeper
admitted, wiping the tears away with the back of one hand, "I
would be less than a wolf. Let me begin by scouting the
two-legs. When I have learned who leads, who follows, then I
will make myself known to them."
"Wise," the One Male said. "The
thoughts of a wolf and the courage as well."
"Tell me where to find them,"
Firekeeper said, rising. "Call my coming to our kin along the
trail that they may guide and protect me."
"I will..."
The One Male's words were
interrupted by a husky voice from the den's opening. An elegant
head, pure silver, unmarred with white or black, showed against
the shadows.
"Go after tonight, Little
Two-legs," said the One Female. "Tonight I will bring out your
new brothers and sisters so that you may know them and they you.
Then, fully of the pack, you may be heartened for your task."
Overcome with joy, Firekeeper leapt
straight into the air.
"Father, Mother, may I cry the pack
together?"
"Do, Little Two-legs," said the One
Female. "Loud and long, so that even the scouts come home. Call
our family together."
* * * * *
"We pass through the gap tomorrow,"
announced Race Forester as they gathered round the fire after
dinner that night. "Then, we will need to slow our progress.
Earl Kestrel..." he dipped his head in respectful
acknowledgement, "has collected reports from the trappers and
peddlers who had contact with Prince Barden. They all agree that
he did not intend to go much further than the first good site
beyond the mountains. He wanted to be well away from settled
lands, but I suspect not so far that trade could not be
established later."
Derian, full, warm, and pleasantly
weary, asked, "But no one has heard from him since he crossed the
Iron Mountains?"
"No one who is admitting it," said
Earl Kestrel.
From where Derian sat, the earl was
just a solid, hook-nosed shadow. He was not a big man. Indeed,
he was quite small, but as with the kestrel of his house name,
small did not mean weak or tame. The furious lash of his tongue
when he was roused was to be as feared as another man's fist --
more so, to Derian's way of thinking. You could outrun a bully,
but never escape the wrath of a man of consequence.
He wondered then, if that had not
been precisely what Prince Barden of the House of the Eagle had
been trying to do when he left Hawk Haven for the unsettled lands
beyond the barrier of the Iron Mountains.
Prince Barden had been a third
child and, by all accounts, roundly unhappy about being so.
Although King Tedric had his heir and his spare, he resisted
having his youngest son attempt any independent venture. Enough
for the king that Barden learn to sit a horse, fight well-enough
for his class, and perhaps dabble in some court tasks.
Perhaps when Crown Prince Chalmer
had married and fathered a child or even when Princess Lovella
was similarly settled, then Barden might finally have been
superfluous enough to be permitted his freedom. Or maybe not
even then. King Tedric was said to be a very domineering
father.
Ironically, because Prince Barden
had been the least noticed and least dominated by his father, he
was the most like the king in temperament. Prince Barden decided
he would not see his life frittered away while waiting for his
siblings to marry (a task, to be fair to them, made more
difficult in that King Tedric wanted a hand in that choosing as
well), to breed heirs, for his father to die. Thus, Prince
Barden began quietly laying plans for a venture of which his
father was certain to disapprove.
Sometimes Derian wondered at the
younger prince's ambitions. Himself an eldest son, Derian was
all too aware of the pressure of his parents' hopes and
expectations. How much easier life would be if they would just
leave him alone! Oh, they were loving and kind -- nothing like
King Tedric -- but sometimes Derian thought he would rebel if he
heard one more "Derian, have you practiced your... handwriting,
riding, fencing...." The list was endless.
Even when he wasn't being set to
his books, there were quizzes. "Quick, son, tell me whose crest
that is!" Or "Don't hold your knife in that hand, Derian Carter.
A gentleman holds it like so." Lately even his dancing, which
had made him the delight of the womenfolk since he was old enough
to leave the children's circles, had come into question. "Don't
skip so! More stately, more graceful!"
No doubt his parents had dreams of
him rising into the lower ranks of the nobility, perhaps by
marriage to some impoverished noble's plain daughter! Derian
groaned inwardly at the thought. He fancied the baker's pretty
second daughter, the one with the round cheeks and the saucy
smile.
Maybe, now that he considered it,
he was more like Prince Barden than he had thought. Both of them
had found their parents' expectations a bit more than they could
take, but the difference was that Prince Barden had defied his
father. Quietly and carefully he had gathered a cadre of men and
women who, like himself, longed for more than what Hawk Haven and
her endless sparring with Bright Bay could offer.
Only after the expedition was
planned, supplied (largely from King Tedric's own pocket -- he
didn't believe it good policy to stint too greatly on his
children's allowances), and on its way did the king learn that
Prince Barden, his wife, and his little daughter had not stayed
at their keep in the foothills of the Iron Mountains, but had
gone beyond the gap to the other side.
The steward of West Keep delivered
the news himself, bringing with him a letter from the prince.
Barden's plan had been well-laid. Almost every lesser guard,
groom, gardener, cook, or maid servant at the keep had been of
his party. The steward, left with only his core group, had not
dared pursue them and leave his trust untended.
By the time King Tedric learned of
Prince Barden's departure, attempting to drag him back would have
been futile. Instead, the king disowned his younger son,
blotting his name from the books and refusing to let it be spoken
by any in court or country. However, Derian knew, as did all the
members of Earl Kestrel's expedition, that even in his fury the
king had left himself a loophole.
Lady Blysse, Barden's daughter, had
not been blotted from the records. She, if the need arose, could
be named to the succession. Prince Barden could even be named
her regent if her grandfather so wished. In those long ago days,
it had not seemed likely that King Tedric would ever so wish.
But things change, and those
changes were why Derian Carter found himself one of six select
men seated around a fire, preparing to go through a mountain pass
where, to their best knowledge, no human had gone for twelve long
years.
He shuddered deliciously at the
thought of the adventure before them and turned his attention
again to the informal conference around the fire. Earl Kestrel
was finishing his diatribe against those who might have defied
King Tedric's wrath and made profitable and secret trade with
Prince Barden's group.
"It would be to their best
interests," he said, "to never speak of their doings. Why risk
royal censure?"
"Why," added his cousin Jared,
"risk having to share a closed market?"
"Indeed," the earl agreed
approvingly. "Forester, as we move deeper into unknown
territory, Barden's people may not take such care to hide traces
of their comings and goings. Keep a sharp eye out for them."
"Ever, my lord," answered Race
promptly and humbly. Then, "My lord, when we find them," (he
didn't say what he had said frequently to Derian and Ox, that he
thought Barden and his party all dead or fled to some foreign
country), "how shall we approach them?"
"We shall scout them," Earl Kestrel
said, "from hiding if possible. When we have ascertained their
numbers and whether Prince Barden is among them I will choose the
manner of my approach. If we find an abandoned settlement, then
we shall remain long enough to discover whether Prince Barden and
his people are dead or if they have merely moved elsewhere.
"Any information," he continued
sanctimoniously, "will be of help and comfort to the king in his
bereavement."
And you'll find a way to turn it to
your advantage, Derian thought sardonically.
That there was an advantage to be
gained Derian did not doubt -- neither had his father and mother.
This was why they had insisted on Derian's accompanying Earl
Kestrel as one of their conditions for setting a good rate for
pack mules, a couple of riding horses, and a coach for the early
stages of the journey.
As all Hawk Haven knew, King
Tedric's paranoia regarding heirs had proven well-founded. Crown
Prince Chalmer had died as a result of a questionable hunting
accident. His sister Lovella, the new crown princess, had died
some years later in a battle against some pirates. Neither had
left legitimate issue. Prince Chalmer had been unmarried.
Princess Lovella had been careful not to make that mistake, but
she had delayed bearing a child until she felt she wouldn't be
needed as a general.
Now, as King Tedric, still a fierce
old eagle of a man, aged, potential heirs buzzed about the
throne. The genealogical picture was so complex that Derian was
still working out who had the best claim. There was even a
member of the royal family of Bright Bay with factions agitating
for King Tedric to name him heir.
All Derian was certain of was that
Prince Barden, if reinstated to his father's favor, would have
the best claim. Lady Blysse, who would be about fifteen now,
would have as good a claim as any and better than many.
And certainly lost prince or his
lost-er daughter would need a counsellor. And who better than
the kind and wise Earl Kestrel who had risked life and limb to
bring father and daughter forth from exile?
That night a few hours before dawn,
Firekeeper curled up among the pups so that they would soak in
her scent and know her even after an absence. Perhaps it was the
hot, round bodies clustered around her own, perhaps the memories
awakened by her talk with the One Male, but she dreamed of
fire.
Kindled in a shallow pit ringed
around with river rock and bordered with cleared dirt. Her
fingers ache a little from striking together the special stones
from the little bag the Ones have just given her. Deep inside,
she feels a shiver of fear as she tentatively nurses the fire to
life with gentle breath and offerings of food.
"That's right," says the One
Female, her tones level though her neck ruff is stiff with
tension at remaining so close to the flames. "Feed it little
things first: a dry leaf, a bit of grass, a twig. Only when it
is stronger can it eat bigger things."
"Yes, Mother. How do you know so
much?"
The One Female smiles, lips pulled
back from teeth. "I have watched such small fires being made,
Little Two-legs. Only when they are permitted to eat more than
their fill do they grow dangerous."
The pale new flames reach out
greedily for a twig, lapping her hand. She drops the twig and
sucks on an injured finger.
"It bit me, Mother!"
"Tamara! Don't put your hand in
the fire, sweetling! You'll get burnt!"
The voice is not the rumble of the
wolf, thoughts half-expressed by ears and posture rather than by
sounds. These words are all sound, the voice high but strong.
The speaker is a two-legs, towering far taller than any wolf.
"I didn't touch it, Mama. I was
only looking."
Orange and red, glowing warm and
comforting where it is contained within the hearth, the flames
taste the bottom of the fat, round-bellied black kettle hung over
them. The air smells of burning wood and simmering soup.
"Good girl. We welcome fire into
our homes but never forget that it can be a dangerous
guest..."
Dangerous.
Smoke so thick and choking that her
eyes run with water. Coughs rack her ribs. A band wraps around
her, squeezing what little air there is out of her. Vaguely she
realizes that it is a broad, muscular arm. Her father's arm.
He is crawling along the packed
earth floor, keeping his head and hers low. Moving slowly, so
slowly, coughing with every breath. The room in the cabin is hot
and full of smoke. Something falls behind them with a crash that
reverberates even through the dirt floor.
"Colby!" Mama's voice, shrill now
with panic. "Colby!"
"Sar..." More a gasp than a word.
Then stronger, "Sarena!"
A shadow seen through burning eyes,
crouching, grabbing her.
"Colby! What..."
She is being dragged again, more
quickly now.
"My legs, a beam... when I went for
the child."
"I'll get her out, come back for
you!"
"No! Get clear."
"I'll come back."
Outside, clearer air, but still so
full of smoke. She is weeping now, tears washing her eyes so
that she can see. Mama has brought her outside of the wooden
palisade that surrounds Bardenville. Looking back she can see
that all the buildings are aflame. Where are the people?
"Wait here, Tamara." Mama coughs.
"I'm going to get Papa."
She can't do anything but wait, her
legs are so weak. Though the air outside is clearer, she can
barely breathe, but she struggles to reassure her mother.
"I'll wait, Mama."
Mama turns. Even smudged with
soot, coughing and limping, she is graceful. Tamara watches
through bleared eyes as Mama goes into the burning thing that was
once a cabin.
Where are the people? Where is
Barden? Where is Carpenter who made her a doll? Where is Blysse
who plays with her? Where is...
Something large comes out of the
forest behind her. A wolf. What Mama and Papa call a Royal
Wolf, though Tamara doesn't know why. The wolf licks her in
greeting, whines.
Tamara points to the burning cabin.
"Mama..."
The wolf barks sharply. A second
wolf, then two more, come out of the forest. Clearly they fear
the fire, but they run into the burning settlement. One even
runs into the cabin, comes out dragging something that is
screaming in raw pain.
Tamara's eyes flood. She hears
shriller screaming and realizes it is her own voice out of
control, belonging it seems to someone other than herself. She
can't stop screaming and all around there are sparks, flames,
smoke, and a terrible smell.
She screams and...
Firekeeper awoke, the scream still
in her throat, the pups stirring nervously around her. Beyond
them, a large white shape rose. The One Female nudged Firekeeper
fully awake, lapping her face with her tongue.
"Awake, Little Two-legs. The dawn
is becoming day. Your journey is before you."
Excerpt from THROUGH WOLF'S EYES
by Jane Lindskold.
Published by Tor Books in August, 2001. Copyright ©
2001 by Jane Lindskold. All rights reserved. No part of this
text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without written permission of the Publisher.
Exceptions are made for downloading this file to a computer for
personal use.
Copyright © 2001 by Jane Lindskold. All rights reserved.
This page updated August 3, 2001.