Wolf's Eyes

by Jane Lindskold

  “Depart?” Race asked. “Where to?”

  “Perhaps there are other survivors,” the earl said. “We can look for sign of them. Certainly we could hunt and so augment our larder. It is early for the fattest meat, but surely a man with your talent can find something worth hunting.”

  A slightly mocking note in his voice revealed that Earl Kestrel had been well aware of the guide's tendency to flaunt his skills.

  Race nodded, reluctant to be away from where the real hunt would be going on, but acknowledging the wisdom of his patron's plan. Besides, he couldn't have won an argument on this point in any case.

  Earl Kestrel rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

  “Our plan is ready, then. I suggest that all but the first watch get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long and busy day for us all.”

  Derian, who had the first watch, began his slow perimeter patrol. When he passed the place where the wild visitor had first emerged from the woods he felt a thrill of anticipation. Would she return tomorrow? Would he be able to convince her to stay?

  In the darkness he heard a chorus of wolf howls and knew that somehow they held the answer to his questions in their clear, lonesome cries.

  FIREKEEPER’S COURAGE HAD RETURNED to her by the middle of the next morning. A full belly and a warm spring day didn't hurt either. This combination, which tended to make the wolves want to nap, had always stirred her desire to explore.

  “Sleep then, Brother,” she said, stroking Blind Seer's flank. He looked particularly handsome, for she had pulled out all the clumps of shedding fur. “I will go and visit the two-legs again. Elation said that all but Fox Hair and Mountain have gone hunting.”

  “Will you come back when they sleep?” the wolf asked without opening his blue eyes.

  “I will, but I hope my courage does not fail me and I can remain long enough to look closely at the others when they return from hunting.”

  “Good. I will sleep then but not so deeply that I will fail to hear your call if they give you any trouble.”

  Firekeeper ruffled his fur and departed. She made a fast trail going to the two-legs’ camp, aware that she felt a strange anticipation.

  This is like but not like finding the first strawberries in the spring, she thought. Like but not like returning to a sheltered place in winter and knowing that I can make a fire and get warm. I don't think I have ever felt like this before. It is interesting and not unpleasant.

  When she reached the trees curtaining the edge of the Burnt Place, Firekeeper exchanged greetings with Elation, then made certain all was safe before going out into the open.

  All seemed much as it had the day before. Fox Hair was seated on the ground doing something with one of their soft hides. Mountain was shifting burned wood, bringing out things from time to time and setting them on a cleared space.

  There were fewer bones now, she noticed. Most of those that were not burned entirely must have been found by now. She wondered, as she never had wondered before, what those other things might be. She herself had found odd things in the grass when the Ones had brought her here each year, but never before had she wondered about what they were.

  Almost as if her impulse guided her feet, she emerged from the forest and trotted over to the heap of rubble. Mountain saw her, swallowed a shout, then held completely still. Fox Hair looked up from what he was doing and, as on the day before, rose very slowly.

  He smiled at her. She was fairly certain, at least, that this was a smile, not a baring of fangs. Since she had no idea what her own smile looked like, she couldn't be completely certain, but Fox Hair did nothing aggressive so she decided the expression must be a smile.

  Again he held out his arms, twisted them so the palms were upraised and open. She imitated the gesture. They stood like this for the long circuit of a robin's song; then Fox Hair lowered his arms slowly.

  He said something to Mountain, who answered him in what Firekeeper was certain was a deliberately hushed voice. Nothing they said made any sense, but there was intelligent purpose behind the sounds.

  Now Fox Hair crouched and lifted something from the ground near him. Dangling it between two hands, he held it out to her. The wind caught it, making it flap, but Firekeeper stopped herself in mid-bolt. This flapping thing had offered her no harm!

  Seeing that she had been startled, Fox Hair carefully spread the thing flat on the ground between them. He said something, plucking at the soft hide he wore, then pointing to the thing on the grass. Cautiously, Firekeeper extended her hand and touched the thing, feeling the same delightful softness that had met her hand the day before.

  Again Fox Hair pointed to his upper body, then, in response to something said by Mountain, he tugged his garment clear from his body.

  The skin below, she noted, was lighter than that on his face. It was also rippling with cold, as if the warm spring air were as chill as that of midwinter. But these were things she noted in passing. With deliberate motions, Fox Hair was showing her how his garment dropped over his head, rested on his shoulders, fell down over the torso…

  She yelped in pleased comprehension. Two quick tugs on her belt freed her from her own cumbersome hide. The Fang's Mouth held between her teeth, she bent and lifted the soft thing from the grass. Finding the opening at the bottom proved a bit difficult, for the soft stuff clung together, but she growled at Fox Hair when he moved as if to take it from her.

  Once she found the hole at the bottom, she groped and located the hole at the top. There were holes for the arms as well. After some fumbling and getting tangled and nearly panicking and nearly having to drop the Mouth so her head would go through the head hole, she pushed head and neck and arms all through their appropriate openings.

  The garment was light, surprisingly warm, and slightly prickly, like the leaves of a mullein plant in late summer. It felt infinitely better against her skin than the hide had done. Over the animal smell, it was scented with lavender and thyme.

  Fox Hair extended an arm toward her and she backed and growled. This was hers now. She was not going to let him take it away. He lowered his arm quickly and she saw that he held a thin strip of hide, much like the one at his own waist. Understanding suddenly that he had been offering her a belt, she snatched it from him.

  As she looped it about her waist, threading it first through the Mouth as she had learned to do long ago andfindingthe task much easier with this even piece of leather, she noticed that Fox Hair was staring first at her, then at his hand as if amazed that she had taken the belt so easily.

  She grinned at him. Clearly he had never dined with wolves! Only the fastest and fiercest ate from a kill. Even the meat of her own hunting would be stolen if she wasn't careful. She'd learned that young enough.

  Fox Hair answered her smile, but she thought there was something of fear and uneasiness in the tang of his sweat.

  WHEN THE REST of the expedition returned later that afternoon, Derian was pleased to see that their wild visitor, although clearly nervous, didn't flee.

  Lightly balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to run if anything startled her, she watched the four men file into the camp. Race carried a couple of rabbits, Valet a string of brook trout. When they passed her, Derian noticed again how she sniffed the air, taking in their scents.

  Clad in her new shirt and nothing else (he couldn't help but remember his embarrassment when she had stripped right in front of both him and Ox) the young woman looked more like an untidy curly-haired urchin than the wild thing who had first come into their camp. With that strange surge of possessiveness, Derian realized that he was glad that Earl Kestrel's first sight of her would be this way, rather than draped in that awkward hide. He would treat her better, maybe even respect her a little.

  “How long has she been here?” the earl asked, studying the woman speculatively.

  “Since midmorning, sir.”

  “And has she spoken?”

  “No. We've tried talking to her, but she only makes sounds—whines and
growls.” That had been both disappointing and a bit frightening. Derian brightened. “She's a wonderful mimic, though. We've been communicating a little by signs.”

  “Communicating?” The aristocratic brow arched.

  “Like about the shirt,” Derian replied, “and we offered her something to eat.”

  “Ah!”

  “She eats like a wild animal,” Derian admitted. “I've seen neater pigs.”

  “Mm.”

  Earl Kestrel's attention was only partially on the conversation. His gaze never left the woman; however, as hers never left him, the clinical investigation seemed less rude. She had taken a position a few steps from the center of the camp, carefully leaving a line of escape open behind her.

  Kestrel bowed to her. The woman did not respond in kind. Indeed, Derian fancied she looked vaguely disdainful. Kestrel may have reached something of the same conclusion, for he frowned.

  The other three men also had been studying the visitor but more covertly, aware of the penalties for usurping the earl's rights. Derian heard Race comment softly to Ox:

  “She doesn't look much like a noblewoman. Acts like one though. There's not a humble bone in that body.”

  Ox chuckled softly. “I'd noticed that myself.”

  “She's healthy-looking,” Doc said, “despite all the scars. She has a fresh cut on her arm, but it shows no sign of festering. Someone's taught her basic hygiene.”

  “She is cleaner than I'd expected,” Race admitted.

  “I'd love a chance to examine her,” Jared said, raising his voice slightly to include Derian in the implied question. “We might get a better idea of her age then. From what I can see from here, she's not overfed, not precisely undernourished, but there's little fat on her.”

  Derian, keeping his own voice soft, said, “She's very cautious about letting anyone close. I don't think it's fear of being touched as much as fear of being trapped.”

  Ox nodded agreement. “She was interested in touching us: my beard, Derian's hair, the fabrics of our clothing, but she wouldn't accept anything but the lightest pat in return. Even then, you could tell she was letting us out of good manners.”

  “Interesting,” Earl Kestrel said. “Very well, Jared, your examination will need to wait until she trusts us more. She has accepted clothing and food, so we are well on the way. I will not have these advances damaged.”

  As if, Derian thought indignantly, you had anything to do with those advances.

  “Secondly,” Earl Kestrel continued, “we cannot go about simply referring to this young woman as ‘she.’ There are very good odds that she is Lady Blysse. Address her accordingly.”

  “ ‘Lady Blysse,’ “Doc offered, the slightest of grins on his lips, “is a bit of a mouthful for daily use. Given her father's standing with the king and her own probable age at the time of the fire, she was most likely merely called ‘Blysse.’ I suggest we do the same.”

  Earl Kestrel, who had been a stickler for protocol even on the trail, glowered at his cousin and Doc hastened to clarify.

  “I mean no disrespect, Norvin,” he said, emphasizing his own point by using the earl's given name rather than his title, “but if we hope to awaken her memories of herself and of language, we don't want our first lesson to be too complicated.”

  Norvin Norwood, Earl Kestrel, nodded. “I concede the point, Jared. She will be addressed as Blysse.”

  The young woman had listened to this byplay with apparent interest, but showed no recognition of the name. Derian sighed. As ever, Earl Kestrel had his own best interests at heart.

  “She looks well in that shirt,” Jared said. “Is the hide you said she was wearing anywhere about? I would like to examine the tailoring. It might give us a clue as to whether she has a companion or two hidden away.”

  “I set it over there,” Derian said. “I thought she might want it,” (he remembered the rapidity with which she had snatched the belt from his hand), “but she lost interest in it as soon as she hadfiguredout how the shirt went on.”

  Doc crossed to examine the hide. Blysse's jet-black gaze followed his movements, but, though she seemed completely absorbed in watching Doc, when the earl took a step toward her, she sprang back without turning her head, without even apparent volition.

  “Like an animal,” Race muttered. Then, “My lord, I'll go get these fish ready for the fire.”

  “Go,” Earl Kestrel dismissed him. “The rest of you may go about your tasks as well, but do not come near Blysse. Do not make any loud noises or sudden motions. We wish her to feel safe.”

  Everyone murmured acknowledgment.

  The earl continued, “Derian Carter, come stand next to me. I have noticed that she uses you as a touchstone. If we are together, she may be willing to approach me.”

  Derian did so, almost hating himself for the subliminal thrill he received from standing shoulder to shoulder with a nobleman. Always before this, in small ways and subtle, the earl had kept his distance from the commoners in his expedition:

  Blysse didn't seem to notice, but by now Derian was certain that she missed little.

  “What are your conclusions about her attire?” Earl Kestrel asked Doc impatiently, for his cousin was staring at Blysse rather than continuing his examination of the hide.

  “She could have done the work herself,” Doc said, his deliberately soft tone almost idle but holding beneath it a suppressed excitement. “It is the most simple of constructions, rather like the dresses young girls make for their dolls. The hide—it's elk, by the way, and I wonder how she killed an elk—has been tanned, though badly. It is in one piece; nothing has been stitched on. A hole has been cut in the center rather larger than her head—I expect she didn't like how the rough leather chafed her neck. The rest has been trimmed so that the movement of her arms would be unimpeded.

  “This belt,” he lifted a twisted piece of leather, “must have closed it somewhat at the sides, if poorly.”

  “That's right, Doc,” Derian confirmed.

  “Derian,” Jared asked, the quiet excitement now rising into his voice, “did you give Blysse anything other than the shirt and belt?”

  “No, Doc.”

  “Not the knife?”

  “No. She had it with her. Never even put it down. Held it in her teeth while she was changing.”

  Both Doc and the earl glanced at him when he said that, but mercifully, this once Derian didn't blush.

  “So you haven't gotten a good lode at it,” Doc continued. “Then you probably didn't notice that, worn as the sheath is, it is of superlative construction, hardened leather with metal reinforcement. Stamped onto it, I believe, is the crest of the royal house.”

  “Oh?” Earl Kestrel's grey eyes shone as he understood the drift of his cousin's thoughts. “I cannot see it from here. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Doc said. “Set into the pommel is what looks like a cabochon gem, a garnet, I'd guess, though it's too filthy for me to be certain. I'm certain I've seen the like before, when hunting with Prince Barden.”

  Suddenly Derian looked at his discovery with new eyes. Until this moment, he hadn't believed in the earl's dreams, but now it seemed quite possible that this dark-eyed lady of the forest might well be the heir to the throne of Hawk Haven.

  IV

  FIREKEEPER HAD SLIPPED AWAY to spend the iff good night with Blind Seer, but before dawn pinked II the sky, she crept back again, so silently that even the spotted not-wolf didn't note her return. Lifting the edge of the shelter the two-legs had given her, she crawled back inside and sat on the soft things they had heaped as a sleeping place for her.

  She was full from hunting, weary from running, howling, and wrestling with her pack mate. In the dim light that penetrated her lair she saw that her new garment was covered with tiny twigs, bits of leaf, and other forest matter. Fastidious as any wolf, she stripped the shirt off and was pulling the mess from the fabric when sleep took her.

  “One character, one sound,” a pleasant, melodious
female voice says. “Put them together and the words will talk to you.”

  Tamara looks down at the slate uncertainly. Sweet Eirene has made marks there with a bit of chalk. Tamara recognizes some of the marks, but fitting them together into sounds still bothers her. She feels hot and foolish as she tries, her lips fat and heavy. Her only comfort is that Blysse seems no more enthusiastic than she.

  “Mama,” Blysse demands, “we want to go outside, Tamara and me.”

  Outside! Sunlight dappling through the trees. Springtime flowers scenting the air.

  “Tamara and I.” Sweet Eirene corrects her daughter patiently. She shifts baby Clive to one arm, opens her blouse to nurse him. “After you have sounded out what is written on the slates you may go out.”

  Tamara looks through the open window with longing, but reluctantly obeys the woman. At least Sweet Eirene keeps her deals, not like some of the other grownups, who seem to believe that the little girls have no more memory than chickens.

  Blysse, though as willful as any doted-upon child, seems to know that this is not a time to argue with her mother. Mumbling their attempts to each other, the girls bend their heads, one fair, one dark, over their slates.

  “Dog and Hog run with Frog,” Blysse announces after a few minutes.

  Sweet Eirene smiles at her daughter. “Very good, Blysse. Now, Tamara, what does your slate say?”

  “The big pig can dig,” Tamara sounds out carefully, wondering why anyone would want to know something so stupid.

  “Very good, Tamara.” Sweet Eirene offers Clive her other nipple. “Since both of you girls have worked so hard, you may have two strawberries each from the bowl in the pantry.”

  “Thank you, Mama.” Blysse says, hopping down from her chair and running with pattering steps to open the pantry door.