by J. D. Lakey
“Storm’s coming,” Cheobawn said, “and the herds need to come back into the long houses.”
Gudu grunted in surprise. “There has been no warning on the Watch’s security alert list. Where did she hear that?”
“Cheobawn told her,” Connor said, glaring at the young Father, daring him to say something disparaging about his Ear. Gudu’s eyes, almost of their own volition, slid down to the lump made by the black bead under Cheobawn’s fur collar.
“Oh,” he said faintly, his face gone suddenly still.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Connor asked, the words hissing through bared teeth as he balled up his fists. Cheobawn’s hands shot out to grab her packmate by the back of his duster just in case he did something stupid.
“Nothing,” Gudu said, holding up his hands in apology. “Cheobawn’s predictions are as good or better than a Watch Ear report any day, I am sure.”
“But? But what. You seem to have more you want to say,” snarled Connor as Cheobawn dug her heels into the stones under her mukluk-clad feet and tried to drag Connor away.
“We have to go,” she said loudly. Connor tried to shake her off but she managed to hang on.
Gudu held up his hands in surrender. “I don’t want to fight you, Connor. I meant nothing by it. Take no offense, please. It is just that when Cheobawn hears things it is never good news. It is only reasonable that I should be alarmed.”
Bad Luck, he meant, without actually saying the words. Cheobawn flinched. Connor cursed and tried to launch himself at Gudu.
Cheobawn leaped up and wrapped an arm around his throat as she put her mouth next to his ear, “Connor! Leave it. We. Have. To. Go.”
Gudu flashed her an apologetic grimace, his fingers already on the com unit screen, notifying the senior officer on duty of the news.
Connor let her tug him around and pull him into motion. She pulled her mittens and headgear off and shoved them into the spacious pockets of her duster and then undid the fastenings of all her outerwear as she walked. Compared to the cold outside, the dome was almost tropical and it would not do to overheat and sweat into her underclothes since she would be going out into the cold again.
“I love that you want to defend my honor,” Cheobawn said softly as she helped him struggle out of his layers, “but you do choose the oddest times to express your outrage.”
“He’s a jerk,” Connor growled as he took his parka back to help her out of her own.
“No. He just likes to have fun. He does not know how much it really bothers us when he says those things because we are both very good at hiding our feelings,” she said, sliding her arm around his waist. “Perhaps we should not keep it all bottled up until we feel like exploding.”
“Punching things helps.”
Cheobawn smiled at the enthusiasm in those words and then bit back a giggle. “It would have been a spectacular fight, though he is more than a foot taller and twice as heavy. You might have won, what with you having the advantage of the element of surprise.”
Connor smiled and broke into a jog, shouting over his shoulder as he ran. “Nah, he would have beaten me to a pulp. But he wouldn’t have walked away without a mark of his own.”
She laughed and raced after him, perversely happy for some reason. Perhaps it was because of the strange buoyant sensation flooding her senses, the kind you felt after a thunderstorm when the stormsense had passed and the air had been washed clean by the rain. The great bear who wore the forests of the Spine like a shaggy fur coat thrummed happily under her feet. Something had broken loose at last in the world and Bear Under the Mountain was well pleased.
Chapter Three
Cheobawn parted ways with Connor near the path that led to Pack Hall. He headed back towards the dorm room and she headed towards the First Mother's apartments on the northern edge of the central plaza. The great plaza lay under the apex of the dome and all paths intersected there. She paused, momentarily nonplussed, on the outer rim of the circle. The plaza was full of people. They were playing War.
Was it a testament to her mental disarray that she had forgotten about the match today? Not feeling like detouring around the edge of the great circle, she cut across the field of play. A map of sorts had been drawn with colored chalk on the stone pavers there. She leapt over large models of boats arrayed in fleets upon the dusty blue oceans and dodged around battalions of wooden warriors standing at stiff attention on verdant plains. There were even small domed cities in the center of each continent, the key piece to be protected at all costs against capture.
War was the winter obsession of every Elder under the dome. The game’s director, the War Master, last winter’s champion, had spent the entire year designing the maps and hatching clever scenarios that would test the limits of the Packs who were chosen to play in the yearly game of strategy. Every winter the map was different and every year dozens of teams pitted themselves against each other and the War Master for the honor of being the last team standing. Winning was a major coup for those who wished to climb out of mediocrity and attract the eye of the First Fathers. The winning Alpha was called War Master for a year by everyone under the dome.
It was late winter. The number of teams had been whittled down to six, and two of those were currently waging a pitched battle for the control of an archipelago. A large crowd stood in a circle around the two teams calling out suggestions to the players, some of which were so patently ridiculous that not even the originator could keep a straight face. Laughter filled the plaza.
Cheobawn veered around the raucous knot of adults but hesitated when something caught her eye. A red and white checkered flag waved from a pole planted in the flag holder of one of the dome pieces. Ramhorn Pack was playing. She had not realized Sigrid’s Pack had gotten so high up in the rankings. Skidding to a halt, she wormed her way through the forest of bodies until she found Ramhorn’s Alpha. The tall freckled boy was in deep conversation with his Second, Breyden and his alpha Ear, Erin. There could not have been three people so dissimilar in appearance. Sigrid’s height made him look awkwardly lanky, the shock of unruly dark brown hair and his long face adding to that illusion. The square-jawed Breyden - his ebony hair pulled back into a sleek warrior’s knot - did not have Sigrid’s height but she knew both boys were an intimidating force on the jousting fields and the sparring floors. In Erin’s presence the boys seemed like mere bookends. The tall, thin Alpha Ear’s honey blond beauty was a distraction that confused many an adversary. Underneath the long elegant braid and the softly draping day pajamas rested the heart of a canny adversary and the soul of Sigrid’s Pack. The three were discussing a point of strategy while valiantly trying to ignore the heckling of the opposing team. Short of actual physical contact, there were no rules in War but those made up by the War Master.
“Sigrid,” Cheobawn said, pitching her voice low to cut through the chatter as she squeezed around Soral, Sigrid’s Second Ear. Soral was a smaller, brassier version of Erin. You could see that she adored her Alpha Ear by the way she mimicked her style but her curly hair was unsuited for a braid and her fuller body would have been better suited wearing a belted tunic over a skirt.
“This is no place for kids,” Soral said through bared teeth as she grabbed at Cheobawn’s arm to stop her. The Second got a handful of the coats Cheobawn hugged under one arm, instead. Cheobawn did not bother playing tug of war. She let the girl have them; abandoning them to Soral’s grip. From there it was only a few steps to Sigrid’s side.
Cheobawn grabbed his sleeve.
“Little Mother,” Sigrid said, looking down in surprise. “What …” Cheobawn tugged and Sigrid had the grace to humor her peremptory behavior. He bent his head to hear what she had to say.
“Vinara needs riders. She has a level three emergency,” she said softly into his ear. “The duty officer might take you if you are the first to volunteer.” Sigrid lifted his head and stared at her. She raised an eyebrow, expectant. Of one thing she was certain. Sigrid, whose easy going demeanor m
asked a heart hungry for recognition in the village hierarchy, would not turn down a shot at a rescue foray.
“Go find Phillius,” Sigrid said, turning his eyes to his third in command, Meshel. “Tell him we are free for any duty he requires and then return with whatever orders he gives you.” Meshel hesitated, a puzzled look on his face. Cheobawn knew what Meshel was thinking. They were in the middle of a match that would decide sixth place. They would lose by default if the other team refused to reschedule. “Run,” Sigrid barked. Meshel spun about and sprinted away.
Cheobawn let Sigrid go and turned to gather up her coats where Soral had unkindly dropped them under the feet of the crowd. Shaking out the crushed parka to fluff the honeycomb liner, she began worming her way out of the crowd. Sigrid stopped her, his hand catching her elbow.
“Thank you, Little Mother. I owe you for this.” His whisper went no further than her own ear. Cheobawn flashed him a smile and then wiggled free and ran. She did not have time for social graces at the moment. Sigrid could thank her on the ride up to the pastures.
Talking to Sigrid had taken time she did not have. She sprinted the short distance to the First Mother's quarters and took the outside stairs three at a time. Dashing through the foyer towards the stairs to the sleeping quarters, she passed the kitchen. Brigit yelled something as she sped by. A glimpse down the hall that led to Mora’s office was all she had as she raced towards the stairs. She was halfway up the first flight of steps before the image registered on her brain. Sybille had been standing there, framed in the open doorway, her head turning at Brigit’s shout.
Cheobawn cursed under her breath but kept running. She did not know if she had the mental strength to argue with the Coven about being included on this foray. For one mad moment, she thought about sneaking out her bedroom window and free-climb down the face of the building like a sticky lizard. She was not on the best of terms with the Coven right now. Instead of giving her more independence as she grew older, they were giving her less. Sometimes it felt as if her Truemother’s house was less a home and more of a cage.
Upon reaching her room, Cheobawn threw her gear down on the floor and started stripping down to skin. She kicked her feet and the roomy mukluks went flying in two different directions. She and Connor had not bothered dressing for a long foray out into the cold when they went to warn Vinara, so there was nothing under her snow pants except a light pair of dome trousers. This too, went flying. Naked except for her underwear, she threw open her clothespress and pulled out her cold weather riding clothes.
Dressing for the deep cold was an intricate process. The thin spidersilk leggings and the matching long sleeved shirt and socks came first, followed by wool pants and a sweater, this layer just thick enough and sturdy enough to keep the leathers from pressing against the skin. The boot liners came next, followed by the tall-heeled riding boots and light-armored gaiters. She pulled her leather pants with the armored thigh panels on over the top of all that and adjusted the long series of quick-snap buckles up the side of each leg. The leather was loose enough to hang over the top of her boots but not binding enough to restrict movement. A long strap wrapped under the arch of her boot to keep the bell-shaped lower pant leg in place. Then came the leather coat, with its armored sleeves and double layered shoulder panels. It offered less protection against teeth and claws than the pants and the gaiters, but the theory was that while mounted, your torso was too high off the ground for any real threat and that what you gave up in protection you gained in mobility when wielding weapons such as double bladed lances.
Pressing the last buckle into place, she shoved her riding gloves and soft leather helmet into her pockets, gathered up the discarded parka and duster, and headed back down the hall. She was overdressed for inside temperatures and the rush to come home and get dressed had made her over-warm. The silk liners were supposed to compensate for some dampness but she would be chilled to the bone inside of two minutes of being outside if she sweat through to the wool layers. Cheobawn forced herself to stroll calmly through the house and down the staircase, taking one step at a time as she descended to the living level, all the while concentrating on deep, calming breaths. She reached the last step, looked up, and froze.
Mora, Brigit and Sybille were standing outside the kitchen door, staring at her, guilty looks on their faces. They had obviously been talking about her. Cheobawn felt the heat rising in her cheeks.
“I have someplace I need to be,” Cheobawn said, deciding to go for the full frontal attack in hopes that it would cut off any arguments to the contrary.
“Yes, I know. I spoke with Vinara,” Mora said. Cheobawn waited for the rest; Mora could forbid her to go and not even Vinara could deny the First Mother that right. Cheobawn looked from face to face trying to gauge their intent; trying to hear inside their heads. Nothing. Her Nestmothers might have been made of ice, for all they betrayed on the ambient.
“Well,” Cheobawn said, sliding around the end of the banister and easing closer to the door, all the while watching for hints of their displeasure, “I guess I need to get going, then.”
Sybille raised an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth gave one small, quick spasm. She was laughing at her. Goddess, how wonderful it was that she could be a source of endless entertainment for her Mothers, Cheobawn thought resentfully. She clamped her teeth together for fear of saying something unwise and made a dash for the door.
“Have a nice time,” Brigit called after her, her tone cheerful and bright. Cheobawn nearly choked. The dome was about to lose most of their livestock and still the Coven insisted on playing games with her. She slammed the door hard behind her and stalked down the stairway, her outrage making her nearly blind.
Cheobawn forced herself to pause at the bottom landing that she might gather her wits about her. It did no one any good if her head got tangled up in her emotions and made her stupid. Stupid got you killed faster than anything else, Phillius always said.
The central plaza lay deserted, the game play cut short. The battalions of wooden warriors stood abandoned, awaiting the next battle, their faces blank, cold, and silent. Cheobawn flinched under their accusing stare and hurried on. The game had ended because of her interference.
Connor was waiting for her just inside the door of the weapons locker.
“By all that is holy, did you have to kill the beast to make your leathers?” he asked, his body vibrating with his barely contained impatience. He shoved a bladed stick into her hands and a hunting knife into the sheath built into the left thigh of her riding pants. She caught a glimpse of the rest of the cavernous room just before Connor grabbed her by the collar and jerked her out the door. The members of Sigrid’s Pack, along with what looked to be all the junior patrol riders, were milling about in front of the weapons racks.
“Phillius does not go half measures,” Connor said as he steered her towards the South Gate. “Vinara is going to need every animal she has to mount that lot. Let’s go. I want first pick. Some of the bennelk can be real thick-headed.”
“You do not listen to what they tell you. It makes them peevish.” she said between ragged breaths as she tried to keep pace with his half jog. “Slow down.”
“No. We have an edge I don’t want to lose. We have already been to the changing room and that lot needs to find parkas and gloves and hats and such. We will have time to impress Vinara with our speedy return.”
Cheobawn snorted in disgust. “Living under the dome is all a big game of War to you, isn’t it? Scoring points and maneuvering for advantages?”
“Exactly right,” Connor declared with utter conviction. “Why else would we work so hard? If it weren’t for the game, I’d be hanging out with the oldpas behind Nedella’s kitchen eating sweet buns and playing Sticks and Stones all day long.”
Cheobawn opened her mouth to argue but then closed it again. What Connor said and what he truly, passionately believed down in the deep, soft center of his soul were two entirely different things and it did one no good to co
ntradict him. It would only goad him on to tell more outrageous lies.
Gudu was standing in front of the South Gate, a remote com unit in his hand.
“Took your own sweet time about it, didn’t you,” the junior tinkerer said, checking them off on what looked to be a muster list.
“I know for a fact,” Connor said with a smug smile as he shrugged his way into his parka and snow pants, “that we are the first ones to check in.”
“Think you know a lot, do you, pipsqueak?” Gudu asked as he put out a hand to help Cheobawn with her snow pants. She accepted his help gratefully. Pulling the fluffy trousers on over all that leather and armor while standing on one foot took acrobatic skills. “Then I won’t bother telling you,” Gudu added, a sly look on his face, “who else just walked through this gate. I’ll just let you find out on your own.” With that, Gudu reached out and palmed the door switch. A crack opened up between the doors and a flood of cold air rushed into the dome.
“Hey!” shouted Connor, scrambling to get his headgear in place with only one riding glove on. “What is the big idea? My Ear is not ready.”
Cheobawn was, in fact, more than ready. Or as ready as she wanted to be for the barns. She would put the rest of her gear on just before they all mounted. Snapping the seal closed on the front of her duster she caught up both their sticks and grabbed Connor, pulling him out the gate.
“Honestly,” she said, “do you have to pick a fight with him every time? Gudu might think you dislike him or something.”
Connor shrugged. “Gudu’s OK,” he said, taking his stick from her. “He knows I don’t mean anything by it.”
Cheobawn shook her head. “And you think girls are weird.”
She was going to say more but the wide-eyed look of wonder on Connor’s face stopped her. She turned and let her eyes follow his gaze. The stable yard was a wall of steaming bennelk flesh interspersed with the frenetic motions of tiny humans who scurried about them, tossing blankets and saddles onto their broad backs, tightening girths, and replacing halters with bridles. Vinara still stood where they had left her and she was still bellowing out orders but now she was dressed for riding in the bitter cold, her pale duster brushing the straw covered stones around her booted feet and her face framed in the thick ebony plush of a dubeh leopard fur hat and neck collar. Phillius and Cheobawn’s Da, Hayrald, stood by the head drover’s side. Vinara looked around, caught sight of Cheobawn, and gestured impatiently for her to join them.