Wolf's Eyes

by Jane Lindskold

  III

  FIREKEEPER SLIPPED AWAY in the confusion folllf lowing Fox Hair's discovery of her footprint in the III sand. Blind Seer ran with her, but Elation remained faithfully watching the two-legs.

  T “I have been as stupid as an unweaned pup!” Firekeeper admonished herself aloud. “I knew that they read trails with their eyes, if not with their noses.”

  “One footprint will not lead them to you,” Blind Seer said calmly. “Your trail went from sandbank into the stream, onto a rock, across a pebbled shore, and then up into the tree branches. They may find where the evergreen bled upon you, but its boughs sweep low enough that they may not even look.”

  Firekeeper scowled, slowed her run to a trot, then stopped completely, leaning her back against a smooth birch trunk.

  “As I have planned how I will meet them,” she said thoughtfully, “all my dreams have held them ignorant of my existence. This is an adjustment.”

  “ ‘When the calf bolts right,’ “Blind Seer quoted, “‘it is foolish to run left.’ “

  “I know,” she said, her scowl lightening only some. “Don't you realize that I'm scared?”

  “Scared?” The wolf cocked his head to one side, perking his ears inquiringly. “Of the two-legs?”

  “Not of them, of what meeting with them will mean.” Firekeeper slid down against the tree until she sat on the leaf mold beneath. “All my life, but for shadows I recall only in dreams, I have been a wolf. I knew I was different from my brothers and sisters, but living day-to-day filled my head. I could ignore the differences if I choose.”

  “And you so chose,” Blind Seer said, understanding.

  “Yes. Now these,” she gestured wildly back to where the two-legs have their camp, “come and my life will never be the same. If I speak with them or if I do not, if I travel with them or if I do not: any choice reshapes the world I have known. Never, never again will I be only a wolf.”

  Blind Seer scratched vigorously behind one ear. “Then speak with them. What does it matter that they have seen one footprint? I call it a good thing, for your coming when they have believed all their people dead will be a relief.”

  “I hope so,” she breathed softly. “By the blood that runs through my body, I hope so.”

  INITIALLY, DERIAN’S CLAIM WAS DISMISSED as a prank. Only when he convinced Ox to go look for himself and Ox called Race and the two men confirmed that the footprint was both real and too small to belong to any of their number, only then did the others begin to share his excitement.

  “Why would I lie?” Derian said indignantly when they had regathered around the fire.

  “No reason.” Jared Surcliffe shrugged apologetically. “Our disappointment spoke, not any disbelief in you. After so much pain, so much work few nothing, it was easier to believe you were suddenly given to boyish pranks than to feel hope awaken once more.”

  Ox grunted agreement. Race nodded. Valet gave a ghost of a smile, and Earl Kestrel, seated on his canvas camp chair, simply brooded over the implications of the discovery. That was all the apology Derian was likely to get, but it warmed him strangely. He'd started out this journey the youngest and most untried. Now they gave him no more consideration than they would to any man.

  After a time, the earl cleared his throat and said, “Of course, Derian's discovery changes everything. In the morning, we must begin searching. Race, you are the most skilled in woodcraft. Who would you assign to the search?”

  “You, my lord, and Sir Jared know something of tracking, but the one I would choose…”

  Derian straightened, hoping that Race saw some promise in him.

  “… is your valet. I've watched him. He misses nothing.” Valet blinked, then refilled his master's teacup before reseating himself and continuing to darn a holed sock.

  “He does that,” Earl Kestrel said with the closest thing to affection Derian had heard in his dry tones. “You may have him if you wish.”

  “My lord!” Valet said in protest, alarm widening his brown eyes.

  “My comfort can wait,” the earl insisted. “Come dawn, the four of us will divide the search under Race's direction. Derian and Ox will tend the camp and, if their other duties permit, continue excavating the ruins of the settlement.”

  Murmured agreement was almost drowned out by the now nightly chorus of wolf howls.

  “Poor lost soul,” Jared said softly, “out there alone with the wolves on his trail.”

  “I COULD FAIR HIRE out as a tailor when this journey's done,” grumbled Derian, as he took up yet another pair of riding breeches and settled his palm shield into place.

  “Derian Tailor doesn't sound bad,” Ox replied. He set aside the burned roof beam he'd been shifting and wiped his forehead with his hand, leaving a large black streak on the pink skin. “Though I myself would go for Saddler or Sail-maker. You're working leather now and, by my way of seeing things, those are more interesting jobs than making shirts and breeches.”

  Derian glanced at Ox and confirmed that the big man was teasing him.

  “Well, you would…”

  His ready retort stuck in his throat for, across the meadow, something—someone—was emerging from the forest.

  His first impression was of woodland shadows come to life, for the figure was all browns and blacks. Then it resolved into a person clad in a rough cape of poorly tanned leather; a knife hung from an equally crude belt.

  “Ox,” Derian hissed softly. “Move slowly. Look to the west.”

  His caution was merited, for when the big man started to turn, the person moved slightly, poised now to flee.

  “Great Boar,” Ox whispered. “We've found him!”

  “Or he us,” Derian replied in equally soft tones. “What do we do?”

  “I frighten even those who know me,” Ox said, “on account of my size. You handle him and I'll hunker down and keep my movements slow.”

  Derian nodded, wishing for a moment that Earl Kestrel were there, then with a startling insight glad that he was not. The severe earl with his sharp commands and ordered plans would only frighten this shy creature away.

  Carefully, Derian set his sewing aside and rose to greet the newcomer.

  “Hello,” he said, speaking in the gentle tones he reserved for a frightened horse. “Welcome.”

  The person showed no sign of understanding, but he didn't bolt. Encouraged, Derian deliberately extended his arms, palms upward, showing that he bore no weapons.

  The newcomer mimicked the gesture and for thefirsttime Derian saw that the deeply tanned arms and legs were silvered with countless scars, some just lines, others puckered and seamed. Pity now mingled with his excitement.

  “He's been badly used,” Derian said softly to Ox.

  “He…” Ox paused, carefully lowering his voice, though excitement vibrated in every note. “He! I think it's a she, Derian. Look more closely.”

  Derian did so and for the first time noticed the visitor's nearly hairless arms and legs, the smooth curve of the throat. Either this was a young boy or a woman.

  “If you say so,” he said uncertainly. “It's hard to tell. That cape is so heavy it hides the body.”

  The person now took a few hesitant steps closer. Her gait was light and graceful; her bare legs rippled with muscle.

  Derian, well aware that the woman could vanish into the forest without warning, matched her approach step by step. Compared with how she moved, his dancer's gait seemed awkward and clumsy.

  She stopped at two arm-lengths’ distance, studying him with intelligent eyes. Her nostrils widened and fluttered slightly as if she was taking in his scent as well as his appearance.

  Derian halted when she did, studying the stranger as she did him. She was of fair height, taller than Earl Kestrel, but then he was short for a man. Her exposed skin was so deeply tanned and weathered that he could not guess what its original color might be, but he guessed from the lack of freckles that she was not as fair as, say, himself or Ox.

  He would bet that h
er dark brown hair had been cut with the knife that hung from her belt. That and a pouch around her neck seemed to be her only belongings—unless one counted the rough hide garment. Wildness emanated from her like a wind from an approaching storm, but her gaze showed rational judgment.

  “She's no village idiot,” he said to Ox.

  “Careful what you say,” Ox cautioned. “Who is to say she won't understand?”

  Derian was curiously certain that she did not understand, but he nodded.

  After more scrutiny, the woman stepped closer. This time Derian held his ground, unwilling to press her. His skin thrilled as she raised a callused hand and touched first his cheek, then his hair, then the fabric of his woolen shirt.

  The feel of the last delighted her. Her expression brightened into a wide, unfeigned, childlike smile. For the first time, she seemed human rather than something of the wood-lands given form. Derian smiled in return.

  This startled her, but only for a moment. She kept her place and continued her tactile investigation. Derian covered his vague embarrassment by saying to Ox:

  “She is definitely female. I got a good glimpse of her breasts just now. Small, though. Young, maybe.”

  Ox grunted agreement. “I'd guess she's been watching us, maybe since we came here. She seems curious but not amazed, like she's confirming things she already knew.”

  The woman turned her head at the sound of Ox's voice and studied him, but made no effort to go closer. A faint smile shaped her lips as she compared his height with Derian's. Then she touched Derian's clean-shaven cheek and frowned.

  With a swift gesture, she mimed the line of Ox's beard, then touched Derian's cheek again.

  “She wants to know why you have a beard,” Derian interpreted in delighted wonder, “and I do not.”

  He considered how to answer, then mimed removing his knife from its sheath and putting the edge to his face.

  The woman started back, considered, then tilted her head in what was clearly an interrogative gesture. Derian repeated the motions. She smiled and mimed taking out her own knife and chopping at a lock of hair that hung close to her eyes.

  “That's it,” Derian replied. “You cut your hair and I shave my face.”

  She was kneeling down, perhaps to examine his slippers, when something made her jump up and back in one fluid motion. Then, silently as she had arrived, she vanished back into the woods.

  Only after she was gone did Derian notice that the horses were casually sniffing the air. A few moments later, moving with a woodsman's stealth and grace, Race Forester, followed by the even more cautious Valet, emerged from the forest.

  “No luck,” he called. “Any word from the others?”

  Ox found his voice before Derian did. “No, but she's been here, right here with us. She heard you coming and vanished like a dream.”

  FIREKEEPER, CROUCHE D OVER a kill she was sharing with Blind Seer, spoke for the first time since she had fled the two-legs’ camp.

  “I couldn't bear it!” she cried. “I was doing well dealing with one, knowing the second was there, but when I heard the others returning, I couldn't bear the thought of being beneath so many eyes. Now I know how a fawn must feel when the full pack cries the hunt.”

  “The full pack would never hunt a fawn,” Blind Seer said practically, “but I understand you. Still, dear heart, I think you have done well.”

  “I ran,” she said bluntly.

  “So, go back.”

  “Not now, not tonight. Tonight I want to sing my story home to the Ones, run for a time in the enfolding arms of the dark, sleep through dayhght for a change instead of crouching in a tree like a squinfeL”

  “Who's stopping you?” Blind Seer asked, chewing on the gristle end of a bone.

  She grinned at him, punched him in the shoulder, then grabbed at the bone. He slashed at her, raising a slight blood trail on the skin of her arm, but she had pulled the bone from between his paws. Leaping to her feet, she raised it over her head, wiggling her hips in a puppy frolic.

  “Got it! Got it! Slow slug!”

  He growled at her, crouched to spring. She kicked him in the nose; he knocked her from her feet. She brought the bone down on his head—hard. He barked in mock anger. She rolled clear. He leapt on her. Together they wrestled, the bone forgotten, the night mad in their veins.

  Tension ebbed as Firekeeper played with the blue-eyed wolf. She simply couldn't afford the indulgence and come close to holding her own. Blind Seer's furiously wagging tail proved too much temptation for her. She grabbed it, pulled. He howled in surprise. She rolled back, belly up, throat exposed, laughing, laughing…

  “I do love you!” she said when she had her breath again. “Why wasn't I born truly a wolf?”

  AFTER DERIAN AND OX finished their report, Earl Kestrel half-rose from his seat and bellowed, “You had her and you let her get away!”

  “As soon try to grasp water,” Ox said bluntly.

  “But Derian said that she came close enough to touch him!” The earl's tone was not in the least conciliatory.

  “She did at that,” the bodyguard agreed, “but still there would have been no holding her, even if we'd had more than a moment's warning of her flight. I've never seen any person move so fast.”

  The earl was still glowering, but he fell silent long enough for Jared Surcliffe to ask:

  “How old would you guess she was?”

  Derian spread his hands and shrugged. “Hard to say. Not old. I'd say young.”

  “Young as in thirty,” Doc pressed, “or young as in eighteen?”

  “Eighteen,” Derian said promptly, “and maybe younger than that. She was female, but didn't have much in the way of breasts.”

  He'd already explained, glad that the darkness hid his blush, how he'd come to be sure that the visitor was female.

  “If my records are correct,” Earl Kestrel said ponderously, “there were two young girls with Prince Barden's expedition. One was Lady Blysse. The other was the daughter of two of the prince's associates. I have her name written down some-where. Of course, there could have been others. Or the young woman you saw could have been a child born after they were settled here.”

  “My lord,” Race offered haughtily, still indignant, for the earl had yelled at him for scaring the visitor away, “from what we've seen of the ruins the fire happened ten or so years ago. There are saplings growing out of the burned houses that are eight years old. The extent of vine coverage speaks for a long passage of time as well.”

  “Would you say,” Earl Kestrel asked Derian, “that young woman you saw was as young as eight?”

  “Definitely not, my lord. She had breasts, small as they were. I don't want to be accused of raising hopes, sir, but she could have been right about the age of your niece, the Lady Blysse.”

  “Dark hair, dark eyes?”

  “Yes, sir. That is, her hair was not quite as dark as yours or your cousins'.”

  Before your hair started turning white that is, Derian added mentally. A small grin at the corner of Ox's mouth told him that his friend was sharing the thought.

  “Prince Barden,” Jared said with infinite caution, “had dark brown hair. Eirene's hair, however, was pale blond and the child, as I recall her, took after her mother.”

  “Children often darken with age.” Earl Kestrel dismissed the difficulty with a casual wave of his hand. “And this young woman has probably not bathed except by accident.”

  Derian was offended, as if the visitor were his personal creation rather than his accidental discovery.

  “She smelled clean to me, my lord, slightly of sweat and there was definitely the stink of the hide she wore about her, but she looked as if she knew how to wash.”

  Earl Kestrel shrugged. “Good. It would be a great embarrassment to bring King Tedric his granddaughter and have her ignorant of bathing.”

  So that's how it's going to be, Derian thought. We have found Lady Blysse wandering wild in the forest. Now we will restore her to her f
amily. To the king and the Kestrels.

  Thinking of the lively curiosity in the dark eyes, he felt oddly sad and suddenly immeasurably older. For the first time, he understood just how politics used some men and women—and how it consumed still others.

  “If she lost her parents when she was young,”'Doc mused, thinking aloud, “it may explain why she did not speak to Derian and Ox. She may have forgotten how to talk. Such has happened to hermits or shipwreck survivors who are alone for a long time.”

  “If so,” again the earl dismissed the difficulty as trivial, “she can be taught to speak again when we have her in our keeping.”

  “And how,” Race asked deliberately, “shall we catch this wild child? If she is so wood wise, we could search until winter comes and never find her. I could set snares for her perhaps or dig a pit trap…”

  Earl Kestrel frowned, considering. A voice so rarely heard as to be almost a stranger's spoke from the shadows at the edge of the fire.

  “If my lord would permit,” Valet said, lifting his traveling iron from the shirt he had been pressing, “I have a suggestion.”

  “Speak,” the earl commanded, as surprised as the rest of them.

  “It would be impolitic to have Lady Blysse tell her grandfather that she had been trapped or snared or handled in any rough fashion. I suggest that we convince her to trust us. Derian Carter said that she admired his shirt, did she not?”

  “She did,” Derian agreed, leaning forward with eagerness, grateful beyond belief that Valet, at least, seemed to see their quarry as worthy of human consideration.

  “We have spare clothing among us,” Valet continued, tactfully avoiding direct mention that his master possessed three changes of clothing to each one carried by the other members of the expedition. “Make her a gift of a shirt. A man's wool shirt with a long tail would cover as much as the hide Derian described.”

  “Yes! Let her be clothed from my wardrobe,” Earl Kestrel proclaimed, apparently mentally drafting a portion of the speech he would make before the king. “Moreover, since she is timid, let the four of us depart at dawn, even as we did today. Perhaps if Derian and Ox alone are in the camp, she could be lured close once more.”