The thick summer grass bent beneath his paws, muffled Laria’s steps. When they were safely away, Blind Seer slowed their pace, the better to hear if any trailed them. Although screams and shouts reverberated in the distance, here there were only the sounds of bending grass, of fleeing rodents, of the quickly stilled indignation of birds disturbed at rest. Only those things and a voice that spoke—so he quickly realized when Laria did not respond—within not his head, but within the stream of mana that was flowing back into him.
Or was it a voice? Voices used words, languages. This was something else, communication through sensation, emotion, not words. Blind Seer’s ears flickered back against his skull as he struggled to make sense of what he was being told. An assurance that the teacher he sought was here, here yet not here. A nearly impossible possibility. But not so impossible, not if Blind Seer could set his paws upon the right trail. There was one who had taken a vow, but who wished to break that vow, if given fair excuse.
He wanted to growl, to snarl, to roll over, to abase himself if that would get him a clearer answer, but he sensed that whatever it was that sought to speak with him was at least as frustrated as he was, so he did his best to read the faint spoor that came to him intertwined with his own mana. If there were words, they might have been:
“All I can give you, give me, is hope.”
Blind Seer shook, aching with fatigue and confusion. Then a chance breeze brought him the scent of Firekeeper, then of Arasan. He considered howling so that they might more easily find him and Laria, for Firekeeper’s sweat held a tang that he knew for triumph. They, too, then, had been successful. Overriding the scent of relief was that of concern, he thought for him, for Laria and Farborn, but it might be because Firekeeper and Arasan were being hunted. Best then to keep silence, though every step the great wolf took made his very bones shiver, so that Blind Seer found himself imagining that only his skeleton coursed over the grassland.
When at last they met, Firekeeper flung herself into him with a wolf’s full-body embrace, hugging him close, then springing back when she felt his inadvertent wince.
“What is wrong, beloved? I smell no blood. Have you yet been wounded?”
“Later, for the tale,” he replied, licking the side of her face and rejoicing in the familiar taste, “and for your embrace. For now, I hurt, although not to death that… That came for another.”
Over to the side, Laria was weeping, explaining in broken phrases what had happened to Farborn. Arasan was trying to comfort her, offering to take the silken bundle that held the merlin’s tiny form, but Laria refused.
Firekeeper did not ask for explanation, only gave Laria’s shoulder a quick, tight squeeze.
“We go, then. Finish this too costly challenge. Without Farborn to scout from above, the river way will be harder but not impossible. I will guide those of you who cannot see well in the dark. Blind Seer will lead.”
The wolf recognized the kindness in this that Laria, drawing in a sharp breath for a protest she never spoke, did not. If he was on point, he would set the pace, have no need to sort through the varied scents of his allies to find his way. And Firekeeper would be at his back, one quick bound from his side if the need arose.
So they made their way, with relative swiftness as long as they were in the grasslands, slower when they must pick their way over broken rock and leap over rivulets. The coursing river itself made a deafening thunder, but they were not required to cross it to reach the mountains that were their goal. Those loomed blue-black against the gradually brightening sky as the night of terror turned into a dawn lit with uncertainty.
Blind Seer’s nose told him when they crossed a heretofore imperceptible line, for the air, previously filled with the green scents of summer now became permeated with those of autumn. There, too, were human scents, Varelle’s among them.
The Gatewatcher stood at the center of a half circle of men and women whose expressions were equal parts grim and awestruck. Smoothly as if taking part in some dance, Varelle stepped forward and reached for the shrouded bundle tied around Laria’s waist. The young woman raised her hands in mute protest, but somehow the knots in the silk came undone, and Farborn’s body was no longer hers to protect.
Pinching a fold, Varelle drew the scarf away, causing it to vanish into sparkling motes of dust that outlined Farborn sitting upright, alert, alive, but definitely not unchanged. The merlin’s talons, last seen fused to the fractured void sphere, no longer clutched their ugly burden. Instead, the material of the sphere had flowed out and around the falcon’s claws, coating his legs to where they vanished into the brown and white feathers of the merlin’s underbelly. The material had hardened into smooth crystal that sparked with minute fracture lines and shifted color with the vagaries of the light.
Farborn gave his wings an experimental flap, then soared to perch on a nearby tree limb. Once there, he lifted one leg, then the other, inspecting his newly ornamented talons. From how he ruffled his feathers, he was as confused as the rest of them.
“What did you do to him?” Firekeeper asked.
“I—we—did nothing,” Varelle replied. “Rhinadei has given Farborn a gift in return for him—for all of you—showing the courage our ancestors lacked.”
As they had made their journey across the plain and through the river gorge, Firekeeper had been told by Blind Seer and Laria what had happened in the sorceress’s tent, most particularly how Farborn had attacked the void sphere, an action that had both permitted Blind Seer to break free of the sphere’s attack and given Laria the opening she needed to carry the fight to the sorceress.
“Farborn was dead,” Firekeeper stated flatly. “His heart was still. He did not breathe. Blind Seer and Laria both checked.”
“He would have been dead,” Varelle corrected, “if Rhinadei had not intervened. The risks you took during the test were genuine risks. You could well have been maimed—or died.”
“Why did you choose to attack the sorcerous siblings?” asked a man with dark skin and hair that frizzed a faded rust. “The challenge Varelle set for you was simply to reach the vale of the Giant’s Last Stand. The armies were intended as hazards—no more, no less than the river or the parched lands. We never thought you would decide you must go after the sorcerers.”
Firekeeper was about to explain, at least a little, for she had in full a wolf’s love for bragging, but Arasan—seeming in complete accord with the Meddler for once—spoke as she was drawing breath.
“Did we choose wrongly? I think not—not if this Rhinadei of which you speak saw fit to grant Farborn not only his life, but this peculiar memento in addition. We accepted the challenge Varelle set us as the only way to prove to unseen judges that we were worthy of learning more about this land of yours. Now, instead of receiving answers, we find ourselves bombarded with more questions. I think the time has come for us to ask the questions. Perhaps the first of these should be one Firekeeper has already asked. What have you—or Rhinadei—done to Farborn?”
Varelle and the rust-red man exchanged glances with each other, then looked toward their remaining three comrades—another woman and two men.
“Fair enough,” Rust-Red replied grudgingly. “Perhaps we should begin by introducing ourselves.”
Firekeeper bit back an urge to growl, for names were so often less than nothing among humans. But she recognized a courtesy when it was so intended, and held her tongue. Besides, the interruption created by Arasan’s words had shown her that she’d come close to erring by boasting of their deeds. True, these humans may have watched what Firekeeper and her allies had done, but much of what they had seen would have puzzled them—from Arasan’s dual nature, to the source of Laria’s vision, to just how intelligent Blind Seer and Farborn might be. Best to keep them guessing—especially since they were being so coy about declaring themselves friends.
Rust-Red introduced himself as “Bordyn, Chief Elementalist.” Then the remaining three gave their names. Just as Varelle was the “Gatewatcher,”
so each of these claimed a title as well. Firekeeper set these aside for later consideration—a few of the strings of words had awakened old memories from her time in New Kelvin—and listened politely. However, when Bordyn seemed to have forgotten that he owed them more than names, she pressed.
“What happened to Farborn? Why do his talons now look so? How is he not dead—although we are very glad for this.”
Bordyn sighed. “The simple answer to this you already have. Rhinadei intervened. As best as we can tell, this was because Farborn put himself at risk with no gain for himself. This after all of you decided to disarm the sorcerers, rather than leave them to ruin the land. For these reasons, Rhinadei decided that Farborn should live. His talons are now proofed against injury from contact with magical forces. How extensive this protection will be, I cannot say, so I wouldn’t suggest trying to take on too much.”
“No grabbing lightning from the sky?” the Meddler asked, the inflection of his voice making clear he meant the words as a joke.
“Especially not completely natural lightning,” replied a man with very long, very straight iron-grey hair, brown skin less richly dark than that of either Varelle or Bordyn, and a completely humorless expression. This was Orten, Firekeeper recalled, the Five Spirits Alchemist.
“Not to complain,” said Erldon, the Lore Lover, a lighter-skinned, soft-bodied man with tiny spectacles perched on the tip of his nose and a bald patch in the middle of his rabbit-brown hair, “but can we continue this discussion in a more comfortable place?”
Firekeeper thought it odd that Erldon framed what was clearly a complaint as not being one, but her increased years among humans had not given her any better understanding of why they so rarely said what they meant. To her, the mountain meadow in which they now found themselves was very comfortable, but she knew humans well enough to realize that most of Varelle’s companions—who were united in showing signs of age—would appreciate chairs or at the very least cushions upon which to seat themselves.
“Ah, well”—Firekeeper brightened at the thought—“at least there are certain to be refreshments.”
“Comfortable is fine,” she agreed, “but the sky is brightening. Blind Seer does not love inside and Farborn is a bird—a brave bird, but still a bird.”
“By which,” the Meddler clarified, “Firekeeper means that Farborn is only toilet-trained in the most generous description of the term so maybe we should remain outside.”
Firekeeper nodded hopefully. Certainly after this mysterious Rhinadei had so grandly rewarded Farborn, no one would suggest that either falcon or wolf should be asked to stay outside, away from the planned conference. After a short discussion with her associates, Varelle motioned for Firekeeper and her allies to follow.
“There is a small lodge used for meditation not far from here. We will go there.”
The lodge proved to be a small house with a sharply pointed roof. The structure was framed by a wide porch along which ran a line of cushioned rocking chairs. The humans were offered seats on the porch, but the wolves and Laria chose to sit in the grass. Farborn took a perch in an apple tree heavy with fruit. After some fussing, the humans’ chairs were arranged in a half circle, so everyone could see everyone else’s faces, a thing very important for humans, who relied on sight more than the other four senses combined.
The refreshments were brought by a man and a woman.
“Those are the same two who wore the armor that made them look like some sort of enormous insects,” Blind Seer said, “those who escorted Varelle when she brought her demands to us.”
Firekeeper decided that the lack of armor and weapons was a good sign and eagerly inspected the offerings. The selection of food was not what Firekeeper would have chosen, leaning toward the sweet, but there was a very good sharp cheese, as well as ample bread and butter. Without being asked, the servants—or guards—brought a deep china bowl of fresh water for Blind Seer.
“We’re sorry. We don’t have food for the falcon or the wolf,” Mata said softly. “They are welcome to hunt, however.”
“She hides her fear well,” Blind Seer said, though whether the fear or the effort at concealment pleased him more, Firekeeper wasn’t certain. “Thank her for me. Perhaps later I will take her up on the offer.”
“Myself as well,” Farborn said, “but first I want to learn the rules of this odd aerie.”
In keeping with her earlier resolve not to give too much away, Firekeeper said to the woman, “Thank you. Perhaps later. For now, we all must hear what is to be told.”
Mata gave a slight bow, then returned inside. A short time was taken up while refreshments were handed around and a selection of drinks offered. Though a sharp cider smelled nice, Firekeeper took water. Laria accepted a tea scented with honey and mint, as well as a small plate of tiny, sweet cakes. Although there were requests to pass this, or suggestions to try a bit of that, there was not much talking among these Rhinadei humans. Nonetheless, Firekeeper felt certain that they were using this pause to organize their thoughts. That was fine. The sun was warm and, after the adventures of the previous night, rest was welcome.
Before long the Meddler—or it might have been Arasan—spoke. “We thank you for your hospitality, but more than for these fine sweets and finer cider, we hunger for answers.”
“And you may have them,” replied Orten, who, other than Bordyn, clearly thought the best of himself, at least as Firekeeper read his interactions with the others. “Although I cannot promise you will like at all what you will hear.”
Even if Blind Seer had not reported the acrid stink in the man’s sweat, Orten’s next words made clear that although he would honor the compact Varelle had made with the Nexans, his attitude toward the new arrivals was far less than welcoming.
“As Varelle reported, you forced your way through the gate—despite it being locked against you on this side, as well as barred on your own. Your excuse is curiosity regarding what you might find here. Firekeeper adds that she has been searching for knowledge regarding traditions of magic that are uncontaminated by reliance on the use of blood.”
Blind Seer said, “Tell him I am the one who seeks this knowledge.”
“But to this point we have managed to conceal just how intelligent you and Farborn are. Should we give up that advantage?”
He huffed in annoyance. “We will need to tell them soon enough. To this point, we have not deliberately deceived them—far from it. Their own assumptions have done so. Now we would need to lie. Aren’t you the one who is always saying that lying is not a part of the way of the wolf?”
Firekeeper gently punched him. This was an old argument between them—her young idealism had met with a reality she remained loath to accept. But Blind Seer was right—as he so often was—and she set about articulating her partner’s request.
“I do not wish to learn this magic,” she said, and when Orten began to swell like a bullfrog and bellow incoherent indignation, she talked through his noise. “Blind Seer is the one with the gift for casting spells. I have been told I have talents, but the working of spells does not seem to be among them.”
As was to be expected, her simple statement of the truth raised a great deal of argument—although, when Firekeeper protested, Arasan told her this qualified as “discussion” not argument. Questions were asked and answered, Arasan and Laria taking up the burden for most of this, because the Rhinadeians clearly thought that Firekeeper was mad. At last, Hanya, the Dance Warrior, a stocky woman whose silvery-grey hair was just fuzz against the golden-brown of her skin, and whose dark eyebrows had clearly been drawn in, managed to shout down Bordyn.
“Would you please be quiet? We’ve all seen more unusual things than spellcasting wolves. Are you going to continue to imply that this young woman and her friends are liars? If I were them, I would have long ago reached the point of insisting that you open the gate and step through to see the world in which they live. Why would they lie if their lies could be so easily overturned?”
Bordyn stopped in mid-argument and turned on Hanya. “As you say, we’ve all seen a great number of unusual things. Why do we have no evidence—actual or anecdotal—of animals with magical gifts? Of intelligent animals as more than stories to be told around the fireside?”
Arasan, his voice at its most musical and appealing, repeated what he’d already said several times before. “I certainly will not speak as if I know all the world but, to this point, the only place where the yarimaimalom—the Wise Beasts, as we call them in the Nexus Islands—seem to occur naturally is the New World. Given that—as we have gathered from the very little we have been told—the continent was not well-known when you sealed the gate to the Nexus Islands behind you, I’m not surprised to find you doubting that a wolf can cast spells. Nonetheless, your disbelief will not change this: Blind Seer—and at least a few others—have the gift.”
Blind Seer said, “Firekeeper, ask them this. Surely they can tell who possesses a talent or is without. Why not simply test me? If they cannot sense my gift, then likely they cannot teach me either. We would then have no reason to remain.”
Firekeeper frowned. “What if they lie to you? Say you have no gift when they know full well you do?”
“Then their fear is too deeply rooted for them to be any good to me,” the wolf replied. “But while some may be so tempted, I do not think all will be. That Varelle seems a sensible sort.”
Firekeeper huffed soft agreement, then loudly cleared her throat. “Blind Seer asks,” Firekeeper pitched her voice to cut through the babble, “can you sniff talents on those who have them?”
Silence followed her words, broken by a soft, throaty chuckle from Erldon.
“An incredibly sensible suggestion.” He paused, pressing an index finger to the tip of his nose, just below his glasses. “However, since each of you seem to possess some talent, we would need to separate the wolf from the rest of you. Would that be possible?”
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