“You can make a new ghost wood,” said Arcove. “If you have enough control, you can give them new traditions. If not…I believe you can approach the ghost wood from the other side if you continue to follow the edge of the lake. I’ve never been that far, but the ghost wood must have a northern border.”
Arcove rose and shook himself. “Think about it, Treace. If you stay here, you’ll need to take a more active role in redirecting the tensions that you’ve caused. I know you’re not personally starting all these fights, but I am confident that you could personally stop most of them if you wanted to. If you keep this up, I’ll have to make an example of you just to keep peace.” He paused and looked Treace directly in the eyes. “And if you challenge me again, you’ll die with my teeth in your throat, I promise.”
Treace held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “When do I need to make a decision?”
“I’ll give you ten days,” said Arcove.
Treace looked alarmed. “Ten days? That’s hardly—”
“It’s enough time to consider your options and to rally your supporters. It’s enough time to cross the plain and establish a den site before any of your pregnant females give birth. It gives you plenty of time to settle in before winter.”
“You’ve thought about this,” said Treace after a moment.
“Yes, I have. Now it’s your turn. If you’re not gone in ten days, I had better see an improvement in the behavior of the cats previously under your command.”
Chapter 16. Poison and Marrow
Later that night, Treace sat on the edge of the lake and stared, unseeing, towards the little island where Moro sometimes tested new ideas. Two of his officers had expressed concern after the visit from Arcove, but Treace hardly heard what they said to him. He wondered who had spoken to Arcove about Moro’s history. He’d lost control of some of his cats as they’d shifted into other clutters.
Treace remembered the first time he’d seen Moro—not a particularly large cub, black as a shadow, hunched in a tree, looking small and alone. He’d actually been a year and a half old, not three. Even their mother had abandoned him, but she’d had just enough feeling for the cub to send for Treace—her only living offspring. “Go talk to him,” she had said without meeting his eyes. “See what you think.”
She had not begged him to save the cub. Just consider it.
Moro had killed a litter of youngsters barely old enough to totter away from their den. He’d led them into the forest and then drowned them one-by-one in a deep puddle—three cubs, too frightened and young to escape. He’d made no attempt to hide the bodies or his own scent trail. He was discovered the next day, picking through the innards of one of his victims. It was unclear whether the cub had been completely dead when Moro dragged him out of the puddle and opened his belly.
The mother of the cubs would have killed Moro on the spot, but he’d climbed into a tree where no adult could reach him. The den mother had tried to question him from the ground, but his answers proved unsatisfactory. His father had died earlier in the year, and his own mother made no attempt to question him—a detail that other adults found significant. The cub was deemed unfit to live. He’d been in the tree for two days when Treace arrived, and thirst would soon claim him if one of the adults did not.
Moro had peered down at Treace with those strangely pale eyes.
“Why did you kill them?” Treace had asked.
“I wanted to see what was inside,” Moro whispered.
“Did you think anyone would be angry?”
“No one got angry when I looked inside squirrels,” said Moro.
“Creasia aren’t squirrels,” said Treace, although he felt an odd leap in his chest.
Moro said nothing. “They weren’t doing anything important,” he said at last. “They didn’t even talk very much.”
“Are you sorry?” asked Treace.
“No.”
“You have to act like you’re sorry,” he said. And he thought, You’re like me. You’ve got the same thing. Whatever it is that makes us different.
Moro looked confused. “How?”
“Say it was an accident, that you were frightened when they drowned, that you got scared and tried to make them live again. That’s why you gutted that one. You thought you could help him.”
“But I didn’t,” said Moro.
You’ve got it worse than I do, thought Treace. “You have to pretend,” he said aloud, “or the others will kill you. When you say it, you must lower your head and your tail, and avert your eyes.”
Moro looked uncertain.
“I’ll do it,” said Treace, surprising even himself. “Come with me.” He’d never done anything like this before, never saved anyone before. But, when he looked at Moro, he felt something he’d always wanted to feel—kinship. This is how I’m supposed to feel about my own cubs, thought Treace. He’d tried with that first litter. He’d tried very hard, but when he looked at his cubs, he felt nothing.
Treace understood Moro. He was better at hiding his own dark side, but he understood.
When Treace planned his fight with the leader of his clutter, Moro had said, “Sharpen your claws in sashara berries.”
Treace had stared at him. “They’ll know—” he began, but Moro continued.
“The poison will slow him down, and you’ll kill him in the fight before anyone sees the signs.”
“But the berries stain purple,” objected Treace.
Moro had smiled. “So fight him in the mud.”
Treace had. And he’d won.
A year later, when the bitterleaf started mysteriously disappearing from their den site, Treace had said nothing. More cubs meant a larger clutter. If a few disappeared now and then, what did it matter? Moro got what he wanted, and so did Treace.
He was more concerned that Moro didn’t seem interested in taking a mate. When he finally did, Treace thought he might kill her. He left such bite marks on the back of her neck each time they mated that the other den members started giving him nasty looks.
“You have to stop that,” Treace told him. “If you’ve got to kill a cub or a rogue now and then to feel right, then do it, but you can’t mistreat your mate.”
“I’ll try,” Moro had said. Next season, she disappeared. Moro took no more mates, although one or two young females disappeared every year.
Arcove’s words echoed in Treace’s head. “Make sure you can retract all your claws.”
“I can,” Treace said aloud. “I can control him.”
“Control who?”
Treace looked around and spotted the pale flash of Moro’s nose in the water, swimming in from the island. Moro clambered up the bank, and shook himself.
“Arcove was here,” said Treace. “He’s offered to let us leave…to take anyone who wants to go and make a new kingdom in the forests of the southern mountains.”
Moro snorted. “Are you serious?”
“He seemed serious.”
“He’s offering you exile. How generous.”
“He said I’d be a king in my own territory.”
“You must be making him nervous…if he’s willing to say things like that.”
Treace said nothing.
“Coincidentally,” said Moro, “I had a visitor, too.”
Behind him, a pale head rose out of the lake. Treace flattened his body instinctively, legs spread, ready to attack or flee. Everything Arcove had said about telshees flashed through his mind. Then the animal opened green, luminescent eyes and looked at him. Treace blinked. He’d seen only three telshees in his life, two of them dead after a Volontaro. This one looked…wrong. Its smell reached him, and he took a step back. It smelled of death.
“Hello,” said the creature in what Treace supposed was meant to be a friendly voice. “I have been Kos.”
* * * *
“If it works, I’ll say you were right,” said Roup.
It had been twelve days since Arcove’s visit to Treace’s den. Arcove and Roup were walking th
e edge of Arcove’s territory. “As far as I can tell, it has,” said Arcove. “Treace and Moro are definitely gone. It sounds like they took about a hundred and fifty cats with them—mostly young adult males, although there were twenty or thirty females.”
“That’ll make for some fights.”
“Yes, but it could be managed. That group is the core of his old command. If they have strong enough bonds with each other, they’ll sort things out.”
“Treace wouldn’t have been my first choice for such an expedition,” said Roup, “but he might be the only one with enough followers to make it work and enough ambition to volunteer.” Roup thought a little more. “He’s starting with about the same number of cats that you did.”
Arcove smiled. “I thought of that.”
“His going won’t eliminate all the troublemakers. The bullies and gossips aren’t that brave. I’m sure they stayed behind.”
“But without a rally point, they’ll be easy to deal with,” said Arcove.
“Agreed.”
“If we do have another war, this will give us greater numbers.”
“If Treace comes to help us,” said Roup skeptically.
“And if he doesn’t, we’re no worse off than we were before.” Arcove stopped to sharpen his claws on a log, leaving behind his own distinctive scent. “War with the telshees may not happen again in our lifetimes. It may be something our cubs must deal with. Then they may be glad of their cousins across the plain.”
Roup sighed. “So…I suppose you were right about letting Treace live.”
Arcove waved his tail. “They may all die—fighting with curbs or fighting with each other. I tried to give Treace some advice, but I couldn’t tell whether I made an impression.”
“At least you sent them in the opposite direction of the ferryshaft herd,” said Roup.
“Yes, I thought you’d appreciate that.” Arcove paused on a little rise to look out over the treetops of Leeshwood. “Treace and his cats can flourish or perish by their own lights. Whether they’re the marrow of the next generation or deadly poison, at least they’re out of my wood.” He took a deep breath. “Now, I just have to decide what to do about Storm.”
Roup cocked his head. “Have you had news about him?”
“Yes. I sent Sharmel to check on Charder a few days ago. You will not believe what he told me.”
Chapter 17. Teek and the Curbs
On the day that Storm left the cliffs, he came to the curbs’ den to say good-bye. He’d not been hunting with them for most of the spring, but they greeted him warmly and introduced him to seven puppies, who were now beginning to hunt outside the den. Storm could not tell most of the puppies apart, but Teek remembered a few of their names, and they seemed to remember him.
Sauny and Valla came up while Teek was talking to the puppies. “Are you sure you won’t come with me?” Storm asked. “I think the herd would accept you. There’ve been no raids this winter. No one’s seen any creasia at all…except for Teek.”
Valla looked unhappy, but it was Sauny who spoke. “No, Storm. Not yet. I have to…” She looked away.
“Have to what?”
“I have to think about something.”
Storm glanced at Valla, but she only said, “What are you going to do about Teek, Storm?”
“I was planning to take him to the summer feeding grounds ahead of the herd,” said Storm. He knew he was speaking a little too quickly, but hurried on. “Then he’ll know his way around in case of trouble. I thought we’d travel to the edge of Groth, and I could talk to him about it.”
“And after that?”
“We’ll stay a little apart from the herd the way we’ve done all spring. Teek and Myla like each other. They play together.”
“They play together,” said Valla flatly. “Storm, you’re not answering my question.”
Storm didn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re asking, Valla.”
“You want to be with Tollee,” said Valla. “You always have. And this fall, you’ll be old enough. What will happen to Teek when you rejoin the herd in earnest?”
Storm opened his mouth, but she continued. “Let’s say that you convince Tollee to live with you away from the herd—unlikely, but let’s say you manage it. What happens in a few years when Teek wants a mate? What happens when he’s too big to live on small game in the summer? He can’t eat grass like we can, and there’s not much large game in the summer feeding grounds. What happens when—?”
“I don’t know!” exploded Storm. “What do you want me to say, Valla? I don’t know.” He took a deep breath. “Have you seen Shaw yet?”
“No. But if you think you’re going to convince her to let him stay with us in Syriot, you’re delusional.”
Storm screwed his eyes shut.
“You need to find a way to send him back to Leeshwood,” said Valla quietly. “The longer you wait, the harder it will be for him to fit in…and the harder it will be for you to let him go.”
“I can’t just send him back,” muttered Storm. “He thinks the other cats will kill him. He’s probably right…especially now that he smells like me.”
“I know,” said Valla gently. “I know you can’t abandon him. But if a way presents itself…think about it, Storm.”
* * * *
Tollee and Myla almost came with Storm and Teek on their journey to the lake. In the end, Tollee decided that it would be an unwise risk with a very young foal. A few days later, Storm had reason to be glad of her decision.
He woke alone one morning in the little hollow where he’d been sleeping with Teek. He could hear angry voices. Storm struggled up in the long grass and crept towards the sound. When he raised his head, he saw a pack of lowland curbs—about ten of them—in a ring around Teek.
“—a long way from Leeshwood,” one was saying. “Such a little cat to be so far from home. Why are you out here, little cat?”
Teek wasn’t speaking to them. He was bristling all over, and his eyes darted around the group.
“We heard a rumor,” said one of the curbs, “that our enemy is traveling with a creasia cub. Do you know who our enemy is, little cat?”
“If you mean me,” said Storm, suddenly standing up, “then perhaps you should bring your quarrel over here.”
The whole pack turned to look at him, and their leader snarled. “Storm Ela-ferry,” he murmured, “champion of highland curbs.”
Before the leader could say anything else, Teek darted forward and savagely attacked the hindquarters of the nearest curb, who’d turned to look at Storm. This was clearly not what the pack had been expecting from a yearling cub, and it threw them into confusion. About half of them bolted, while the rest tried to attack Teek in a bedlam of snarling and yelping.
Storm bounded forward, got a mouthful of curb flesh, and shook the animal as hard as he could, slamming it against the ground as he let go. At the same time, his front hooves came down in a solid blow against another curb’s skull. He felt jaws latch onto one of his back legs and kicked out viciously, flinging away his attacker.
All of this happened in an instant. In the next instant, Storm saw Teek jump straight up out of the pile of struggling bodies. Teek landed on one of the curbs’ backs, all of his claws extended. The curb gave a screaming yelp. He bolted out of the group, jumping and twisting in the air. He writhed briefly on the ground, but when he came up again, Teek was still there. The little cat appeared to have locked his teeth as well as his claws in the curb’s spine.
The curb gave another panicked scream and tore off across the plain. Storm took off after them without waiting to see how many curbs he’d killed or what the rest were doing. The curb was running at a speed born of mortal terror, Teek still clinging to his back in what must have been a state of nearly equal terror. Storm soon lost sight of them.
It took him a quarter of the day to catch up. Storm was certain that he would find Teek’s corpse at the end of his search. Instead, he found Teek beside the body of the curb.
Teek was trying, half-heartedly, to groom his own ruffled fur.
When he saw Storm, he dashed up to him, trilling a desperate greeting and making that odd throbbing noise between breaths. He butted his head against Storm’s front legs. “I thought they were going to kill you.”
“I thought the same about you,” muttered Storm, staring at the curb. “How did you…?”
“I don’t know,” said Teek. “I don’t know, I don’t know. Can we run away before they come back?”
“I don’t think they’ll come back.” When Storm examined the curb, he realized that Teek must have instinctively set his jaws in the curb’s neck just behind the head. The animal could not reach him or dislodge him. An older cat—even an older cub—would have broken the curb’s neck in short order. However, Teek’s jaws were not yet strong enough for that. Instead, he had slowly crushed the curb’s neck bones as the animal ran howling across the plain.
Storm shuddered. He glanced at Teek, now calmly grooming himself. I never taught him that. It was pure instinct. What else will his instincts teach him?
Teek seemed to sense Storm’s eyes on him and looked up. He studied Storm’s face. “Did I do something wrong?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
“No,” said Storm. He tried to smile. “You may have saved my life.”
Teek padded back to him quickly and rubbed around his legs. “Can we go now? Please?”
Storm felt suddenly tired. This is the sort of thing I’ll have to deal with all the time if I want to live away from the herd. Could Tollee and I have protected Myla if we’d been attacked alone? He could feel bruises on his legs where the curbs had tried to latch onto him. “Yes,” he said aloud. “Let’s get to the lake. I’d like to hear frogs this evening.”
Chapter 18. Mistakes of the Past
Over the next few days, the ferryshaft herd drifted in, and Storm almost forgot his worries for the future. The air was warm and the water of the lake delightfully cool. Frogs and insects filled the evenings with sounds that Storm associated with contentment and plenty. Fireflies winked under the trees at night. The grass was sweet and tender, and small game was plentiful in Chelby Wood.
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