He had the story all scripted out, so carefully refined that sometimes he had to remind himself that the encounter hadn't taken place. Still, he'd been glad enough when the earl had decided to increase their pace.
Earl Kestrel's reason for wanting speed hadn't been fear. It had been eagerness. Race's horn blast had signaled that he and Ox had found something. It couldn't be the prince's settlement—in that case, signaling was strictly forbidden lest it ruin the earl's opportunities for an advantageous approach—but it was something.
Now Derian looked around the open meadow wondering just what Race Forester had found and what it would mean to their quest. However, until the horses and mules were untacked and groomed, he wouldn't be free to join the conference.
As a compromise between duty and curiosity, Derian moved to where he could eavesdrop.
“Yes, Race,” Earl Kestrel was saying. “Evidently there was a settlement of some size here. Now that you point it out, I see where the palisade must have been. Those mounds of vines and suchlike, those must have been buildings.”
“Yes, my lord,” Race replied. “Fire did for the place pretty thoroughly, but until we do some digging we can't tell if the fire came before or after the people left.”
“How can we tell?” called Ox from where he was helping Valet pitch the earl's tent.
“By what's left behind,” Race said. “If we find most of their goods or bones, then we must face that the fire happened when they were here. Graves, too. Survivors would have buried their dead before moving on or left some sort of marker.”
“To do less,” Jared agreed from where he was tending the cook fire, “would be an insult to the spirits of the departed.”
Derian nodded thoughtful agreement. Ancestors were the means by which the living petitioned the natural world. Even if the dead had no blood kin among the living, they still would be the ancestors of the settlement group, meant to be revered even as Hawk Haven still shared with King Tedric and his family reverence for the spirit of Zorana Shield, who had won the kingdom its freedom following the Years of Abandonment.
Since the discussion had become general, he asked:
“Will we start looking for signs while we still have light?”
“No, Derian,” Earl Kestrel replied. “Long enough has passed for vines and young trees to sprout from the houses. Almost certainly, the settlers dug cellars and wells. We do not want to stumble into these in twilight. Tether the horses well away from the ruins of the palisade and check for any-thing that might harm them.”
“Yes, sir. And, my lord?”
“Yes?”
“If we're going to remain here some days, we should make a corral for the horses and mules. Pickets can be ripped up when the ground is soft like this and I dislike the idea of tying them when there are wolves about.”
“Good thought. Will hobbles do?”
“For some, perhaps, but not all.”
“Very well. Tomorrow, you can begin constructing a corral. I want Ox for the excavation.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Mentally, Derian kicked himself for making more work; then he kicked himself again for acting like a child. Taking care of the mounts and pack animals was his responsibility and he had done a good job so far, hadn't lost a single beast. Let the earl and the others dig through the ruins and make the great discoveries.
Suddenly he cheered up.
That way they'd be the ones to disturb any angry spirits.
THE MORNING AFTER THEIR ARRIVAL at the Burnt Place, the two-legs began rooting about like young beavers with an undammed stream or bears scenting a honeycomb in a hollow tree.
Firekeeper had admired how quickly they had rebuilt their portable dens and created a little nesting place for themselves at the edge of the meadow. However, when Fox Hair began his day felling small trees and piling them on each other, she was completely puzzled.
Elation clarified his actions for her.
“They plan to stay awhile,” she shrieked. Then more calmly, “The fallen trees will cage theirridingbeasts so they do not stray. Fox Hair is their keeper.”
“Oh.” Firekeeper was confused; then she thought of an analogy. “Just as a young wolf acts as nursemaid to the pups. I understand. I did think he was junior among them, for all that he is so big.”
“And the others,” Blind Seer asked with a lazy yawn, “those who root in the heart of the Burnt Place. What are they making?”
“Nothing,” Firekeeper replied with certainty. “They are looking for traces of those who once denned there. Didn't Elation tell us that they sought them?”
'True enough.” Blind Seer yawned again. “I will sleep while they dig. Wake me if you have need.”
“I will,” she promised, her gaze drawn irresistibly back to the two-legs.
Today Firekeeper climbed a towering evergreen which oozed strongly scented sap onto her hands and feet. She would have preferred an oak or maple, but their pale green, still growing leaves offered little concealment.
Hidden by the thick, dark green needles, Firekeeper had a clear view of all that went on below. Elation perched nearby.
Sometimes the falcon was able to clarify some incomprehensible behavior; sometimes she admitted herself as confused as the wolf. Sometimes, when the scene below became tedious, she dozed or hunted mice.
Even though the two-legs kept watch around them, they never looked up, never saw the watchers. Firekeeper didn't hold this against them. When she remained still there was nothing to be seen. When she climbed higher or lower, she was careful to wiggle the branches no more than a squirrel might. Moreover, there was a stream between her tree and the Burnt Place. As none of the two-legs or their animals had crossed this natural barrier, none caught her scent on the ground.
That night she climbed down to join Blind Seer, careful this time to keep their greetings relatively quiet. The two-legs had gathered round their fire and she could hear the rise and fall of their voices as they discussed something—quite likely the results of their day's hunting.
She wished she could understand them, but the sounds they made meant less to her than the hoots of the owls awakening for the night or the sleepy chirps of the day birds settling in to sleep.
BY THE TIME DARKNESS FELL that night, all the expedition was subdued and depressed. Race had pulled out his flute, planning to play for them as he had many nights along the trail, but the instrument dangled unused between his fingers. Even one day's excavation had provided evidence that at least some of Prince Barden's expedition, if not all, had died in this place.
“Human bones,” Ox said heavily. “No doubt about it. Even if there was, doubt, little things confirm that the settlement wasn't systematically evacuated.”
“Little things?” Derian asked. He didn't remember ever seeing the big man so depressed.
“Pots scattered where they fell,” Ox explained, “a tool kit, a sword with bits of the scabbard burnt hard around it. Things they would have taken with them if they were merely resettling elsewhere.”
Race glanced at Earl Kestrel. “We could do some systematic salvage work here.”
“Looting, you mean!” the nobleman said sharply. “No! There will be nothing of the kind. Cousin Jared, to what society did your parents give you when you were born?”
“The Eagle,” Jared replied uncomfortably.
Derian wondered at Doc's apparent embarrassment, then realized that by giving their son to the society patronized by the royal house, Jared Surcliffe's parents had been openly soliciting royal favor. That would be an embarrassment for a man who took such obvious delight in making his way through his own skills.
“I thought that was what I recalled.” Earl Kestrel nodded somberly, apparently immune to his relative's embarrassment. “Eagle joins heaven and earth with his flight; therefore you will take charge of the funeral rites for those who died here. Also, if anyone can be identified, you will keep records of the proof.”
Doc lowered his head in acquiescence, but there was a
frown visible on his lips.
No wonder, Derian thought. What the earl means is: “You will do your best to discover if Prince Barden is among the dead.” How does he expect Doc to learn that from old charred bones?
Surcliffe voiced some of the same doubt. “I will try, cousin, but unless the body was miraculously preserved or wears on its bones some bit of jewelry or insignia that has survived the fire, the best I can do is count skulls and pieces of skulls and hope to guess how many died here.”
“Very well,” Earl Kestrel said heavily. “Men, retrieve not only bones but also anything that might have belonged to the owner.”
Race Forester was obviously unhappy about this situation. “I didn't hire on to dig up people's bones,” he muttered, almost, but not quite, mutinous.
“I hired you to help me find the missing prince,” Kestrel replied sharply, “but if you are afraid of digging, you can do Derian's work with the horses and keeping the camp. Derian, consider yourself reassigned!”
“Yes, my lord!”
“I didn't say…” Race Forester began to protest, but a sharp glance from the earl's pale grey eyes silenced him. Disappointment or perhaps sorrow had set the nobleman's usually short temper smoldering. Instead, Race swallowed whatever he had planned to say and occupied himself by taking his flute out and cleaning the stops.
Derian Carter whistled a light air as he fetched the water that night, his previous fear of ancestral spirits quieted by his tacit promotion. Tomorrow Race Forester would haul and carry!
FIREKEEPER WATCHED THE NEXT DAY as the two-legs turned most of their efforts to excavating the burnedout ruins. Even a steady drizzle that transformed soot and dirt to tacky mud didn't stop them.
“They work like a pregnant mother searching for a perfect den site,” commented Blind Seer when he awakened from one of his frequent naps. “Do you think they're whelping?”
“Idiot,” she said fondly, tossing a few twigs down at him. “They're carrying out the bones of the ones who died in the fire. Heads interest them especially.”
“‘One head, one kill,’ “quoted Blind Seer. “How better to tell if they have found all their missing ones? How soon till they find your head, sweet Firekeeper?”
“All in my time,” she temporized. “Whenever I think I understand them, they do something strange. Today Fox Hair is certainly over Tawny. I heard no sound offighting.Why then the change?”
“Perhaps they fought while we were out hunting.” Blind Seer dismissed the question for something more immediate. “I'm hungry, tired of eating rabbit. The wind is ripe with the scent of some spring-mad buck. Will you hunt with me or must you stay to see each bone taken from the soil?”
Firekeeper considered. “I'll hunt. Elation, will you tell me if they depart from here?”
“One or all?” the bird asked.
“All or mostly all,” the young woman replied. “One or two may go hunt for the rest.”
When she and Blind Seer returned, full of the flesh of a foolish buck who had cracked his foreleg whilefightinghis reflection, more skulls and pieces of skulls were laid out in neat ranks. Many were broken, but the two-legs who was their keeper sat fitting broken pieces together into an approximation of a whole.
“Strange,” said Firekeeper, “many of the bones must have been burnt entirely. Why do they keep at this crazy hunt?”
“Because,” Elation said, swiveling her head so that one golden-ringed eye pinned Firekeeper securely, “from knowing how many are certainly dead they can estimate how many may be dead. It is not unlike judging a wolf pack from two of its members.”
“They must know by now,” Blind Seer said, licking a trace of deer blood from one paw, “that all or nearly all died here. Firekeeper, you will need tofindcourage to speak with them before they go back across the mountains.”
“I will,” she promised, “I will.”
But that night, as she and Blind Seer sang home the news of the two-legs and of their own doings, Firekeeper wondered how she could ever dare to approach the strangers.
DERIAN WOKE UP feeling like the aftermath of a New Beer festival. As he struggled awake, he felt vaguely surprised that his mouth was not foul, nor his limbs heavy.
Then he remembered. This hangover was spiritual, not physical, the result of a day spent grubbing in the burned ruins of peoples’ homes, bringing out their bones and their belongings, ending any hope that Prince Barden's expedition had survived.
Breakfast that morning was a subdued meal, but at least Earl Kestrel had joined them. The night before he had attended the ceremony for the dead that Jared had improvised, then had retired to his tent. Valet had come over to the main fire a few minutes later and requested silence for his master.
“His youngest sister, you may recall, was Prince Barden's wife,” he said before departing.
“I had forgotten,” Derian had whispered, appalled that he had thought the earl's mood only disappointed ambition, “if I ever knew.”
Ox and Race nodded agreement. Doc sighed.
“Eirene,” he had said as if the name itself were a prayer. “Never beautiful, but gentle and sweet. Brave beneath her quiet demeanor. King Tedric didn't care who his youngest son married as long as the bride was from one of the Great Houses.”
“So Prince Barden married for love?” Derian had asked softly.
“Yes,” Doc had replied, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “He did. I'm for bed.”
All had nodded. No one felt much like talking in any case. They had performed the evening chores with a minimum of discussion and each had retired to his own tent. Ox had fallen asleep with the ease of an old campaigner, but Derian had heard him muttering in his sleep.
Derian himself had lain awake for some hours watching the shadows against the canvas, trying to imagine what might have happened to all those people. His mind was so populated with horrors that the nightly wolf concert had seemed like a familiar, almost pleasant thing—that is, until he began to imagine wolves dragging roasted corpses from the burned buildings and feasting on the charred flesh.
This morning, however, Earl Kestrel did not mention his sister's death and no one had the courage to offer him sympathy. Instead they listened alertly when, after putting aside his porridge bowl, Earl Kestrel began the morning conference.
“Does anyone have a theory about what happened here? I would like to be able to make a full report to the king.”
Poor fellow, Derian thought with surprised sympathy. Not only does he share our common horror and the loss of his little sister, but also he has to face telling King Tedric his son is surely dead.
Race Forester offered tentatively, “A fire in the night, I'd say. I'd swear that two of those I uncovered were lying down, peaceful-seeming.”
“No one bore weapons,” Ox agreed quietly. Soot he hadn't washed away the night before blended in with his scruffy beard, making his face unusually dark. “But how could such a fire start if everyone was asleep?”
“Coals poorly banked, a spark in a chimney, a candle guttering out on a bedside table, a pipe left smoldering,” Doc shrugged. “These things and their like have happened be-fore.”
“But how did they sleep through it allf” Derian protested, his own voice as shrill as that of the hawk whose cries they had heard periodically over these past days.
“Smoke,” said Ox. “Smoke is more dangerous than fire and it rises. Families asleep in the lofts and attics of their cottages might breathe in their deaths without knowing.”
“If they trusted themselves to the protection of their palisade,” Race said, his voice hoarse, “thefirecould have gotten out of control before anyone knew. My lord!” he appealed to the earl, his eyes wide. “Pray tell me that we are not going to spend today as we did yesterday!”
“We are,” Earl Kestrel replied, his gaze stern. “I owe the king a full report. You, as yesterday, will tend the camp.”
Race sulked, mutiny in his eyes. “It isn'trightto so disturb the dead!”
“It is not right,” the earl said in measured tones, “to leave them without their rituals.”
So passed another day of soot, of painful discovery, of sweaty, back-breaking labor. The only relief was that it was no longer raining.
At the end of the day, Derian was so heartsick he didn't protest when Race shoved a pail at him and demanded that he fetch water from the stream.
Instead he staggered down the newly broken footpath, hardly seeing the ground beneath his feet for the more vivid reality in his memory: a wedding bowl, the names of husband and wife still readable despite the cracking; a tin iiorse, twisted, but twin to one he had bought his little brother for Summer Festival; buttons lined in a row, though the shirt they closed was ash; a stone inkwell.
And, of course, the bones of the dead.
The stream water was icy cold, fed with runoff from the not too distant mountains. On impulse, Derian thrust his head beneath a little waterfall that interrupted the stream's course. Shedding his clothing as if he could shed the visions with it, he waded into the water, dunking his head again and again, scrubbing the soot from his skin with handfuls of sand.
He could feel his lips turning blue as he pulled himself onto the bank, but his mind was his own again. He could even grin, imagining the expressions on the others’ faces when he came into camp stark naked, buckets of water slung from the yoke over his shoulders and his damp clothing in his hands.
Derian was adjusting the yoke on his bare neck when he saw the impossible thing. Across the water, a few yards upstream from the waterfall, was a broad patch of sand, deposited, no doubt, when the waters ran higher.
In the sand, as clear as daylight, was the solid imprint of a small human foot. Next to it, as if the two had walked side by side, were the equally real prints of an improbably large wolf.
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