Wolf's Eyes

by Jane Lindskold

  “Race Forester's skilled examination of the rings of the trees growing from the ruins places the date of the conflagration at about ten years ago. At that time, Lady Blysse would have been five years old, far too young to have survived without assistance. My theory is that one or more members of the community survived and cared for the child.”

  His voice deepened and, to Derian's surprise, took on the cadences of a professional storyteller. Like a storyteller, the earl began with the traditional words:

  “Envision with me, if you would be so kind, pale light dawning on a morning graced with steady rain. Heaven's water falls on the smoldering wreckage of a community built from youthful dreams. As it extinguishes the fire, it extinguishes the last faint hopes of the builders.

  “At the edge of farmed fields stands a small group, perhaps as small as two. One is Prince Barden. His noble face is blackened with soot and ash, his powerful body stooped with exhaustion, his expression ravaged with grief, for those still burning embers hold within their embrace the bodies of his friends and comrades, perhaps the body of his lady wife.”

  The earl's voice broke there and Derian liked him better for it. Even in the midst of constructing a pedigree for the foundling, a pedigree on which rested Kestrel's own ambitions for advancement, the man couldn't quite subdue his own sorrow at the loss of his sister.

  Suspicious then that he was too gullible, that the catch in the earl's voice had just been good theater, Derian glanced at the nobleman, but the tightness around Norvin Norwood's eyes and mouth was genuine. His voice, though, when he spoke again, had returned to his control:

  “Prince Barden holds in one of his great hands a small one, that of his small daughter, Blysse. Terrified and con-fused by the changes the night has wrought, still the little girl tries to be brave for her father's sake. He, in turn, takes courage from the child's need for him.

  “After foraging among the ruins for the basic necessities of existence, the prince leads his daughter into the forest. There is no benefit to staying near, yet Barden cannot bear to take himself too far away from this accidental funeral pyre. If he departs, who will make the offerings to the spirits of the dead?

  “So he remains and builds a small shelter in which he raises his daughter, letting her help him forage and hunt for what they need to survive in the wilds. Certainly, he made no more permanent provisions for the future. Doubtless, when the traditional two years of sacrifices for the dead were ended, Prince Barden planned to return to his father's kingdom. Once there, if only for his small daughter's sake, he would beg forgiveness for his rashness and ask to be taken back into the fold.

  “However, before those two years can pass, something happens to him. Perhaps the heat of the fires that Prince Barden certainly challenged when attempting to save his people seared his lungs. Perhaps he broke a limb or caught an illness while hunting in the freezing cold of winter for food for his daughter. Perhaps it was simply the final stroke of the ill luck that had dogged his young life. For whatever reason, when the two years had passed, the prince was too weak to make the onerous journey across the mountains. Instead, he put his full energies into teaching his daughter what she would need to survive.

  “At last, his strength failing him, Prince Barden strapped his own knife about young Blysse's waist, rested her small but strong hand on the polished garnet on the pommel, made her swear to fight to survive even when he had passed on. Taking her to the ruins, he consigned her care to the ancestral spirits to whom he had so devotedly sacrificed. Shortly thereafter, he joined them.

  “Perhaps Blysse buried him in the ruins near those he had loved. Perhaps, trembling with grief, she was forced to leave his body to the ministry of the wild creatures. However, like her father, she remained close by the familiar places. There, nearly wild, we found her, and so we return her to the embrace of her grandfather.”

  Earl Kestrel paused, one hand holding Coal's reins, the other lightly stroking his lip, his gaze keenly observing the reaction of his listeners. Jared Surcliffe was thefirstto speak. His voice was a bit hoarse, as if he had been holding back tears.

  “That's a good explanation, cousin,” he said slowly. “It explains much of what has puzzled me: how the girl survived; why she stayed near to this place; why, even if someone had lived to care for her when she was small, didn't that same person take her home to Hawk Haven.”

  Earl Kestrel bowed his head in gracious acknowledgment of the praise.

  “I like the touch about the prince giving his daughter his own knife,” Race Forester said, his envy forgotten under the story's spell. “It rings true. A royal prince would have done something just like that.”

  Derian nodded, but as he glanced at the dark-haired figure trotting alongside his horse, her eyes alive with curiosity, he wondered.

  It could have been just like that, but was it?

  He wondered if they would ever know and realized with a shiver that discovering the truth was up to him, for if the woman remained a creature of the wilds, the truth would never be known.

  THE TWO-LEGS STOPPED traveling toward the mountains long before Firekeeper was at all tired. Still, she was glad for the break, glad for an opportunity to assess what she had learned.

  Fox Hair had clearly been made her nursemaid, a role that was apparently a promotion among the two-legs, for it was evident to her that Tawny resented him greatly.

  She was rather pleased for Fox Hair, nonetheless. He was amusing and willing to make great efforts in order to be-friend her.

  After a day of watching the two-legs interact from within their midst, she was certain that they could talk as well as any wolf. Unlike wolves, however, they mostly used their mouths, a thing she found limiting. How could you tell someone to keep away from your food when your own mouth was full?

  While the two-legs were lighting their fire and taking all the things off the not-elk that they had put on them with such effort a short time before, Fox Hair motioned Firekeeper to join him by the fire. Although, she disliked how the smoke dulled her sense of smell, Firekeeper came over and seated herself on a rock upwind.

  While busily washing some vegetables in a container of water, Fox Hair chattered squirrel-like at Mountain, who was setting up one of the shelters. Feeling left out when Fox Hair stopped, Firekeeper attempted to mimic his final string of sounds.

  She was a good mimic. So long ago that she did not remember the learning, she had discovered that imitating various bird and animal calls could bring her prey to her, rather than forcing her to seek it over great distances.

  Hearing her imitate him now, Fox Hair's eyes widened in an expression she recognized as surprise. In a sharp tone, he said something to her. She did her best to make the same noises back at him.

  Hearing her, Mountain laughed and said something to Fox Hair. She mimicked him as well, pitching her voice lower, though she could not reach his great, thunder-deep rumbles.

  Fox Hair nodded at this, reached up, and pulled at his mouth in what Firekeeper was certain was a gesture of thought. Two-legs pulled at their mouths a great deal. Those who grew hair there often fingered it or tugged at it.

  She wondered if her own inability to grow hair on her face would be a handicap among two-legs, perhaps one as great as not having fangs had proved to be among wolves. If so, she supposed, she could fasten another creature's hair there, just as her Fang had compensated for her other natural short-comings. However, she hoped that since Fox Hair cut the hair from his face she would be spared this.

  Letting his hand drop into his lap, Fox Hair picked up one of the plant roots that he had been washing a moment before.

  Slowly and carefully, he said: “Potato.”

  Firekeeper imitated him perfectly. Fox Hair smiled, picked up another root, this one long and orange.

  “Carrot.”

  She imitated him.

  “Onion.”

  A dozen items later, he began to repeat. Soon she had all the words and could, when Fox Hair pointed to one or another of
the items, match word to thing.

  Fox Hair grinned his delight. Hawk Nose, who had been watching from a distance, came over and tested her himself.

  Firekeeper went through the routine again, aware that impressing this two-legged One was important. Hawk Nose nodded at her when she had finished, then said something rapidly to Fox Hair. Fox Hair replied. His tones, Firekeeper noted, were more measured than when he spoke with Mountain. She wondered if cadence indicated something, perhaps relative standing within the pack.

  After they had eaten, Fox Hair drew Firekeeper off to the side and continued teaching her sounds. By fiill dark, she had learned several dozen more, knew that the not-elk were horses, that the cringing spotted kin-creature was a dog, that the shelters were tents.

  She was a little puzzled to find that the same word applied to the small shelters such as the one in which she slept and the larger one in which Hawk Nose slept. They were so different in shape and purpose—Hawk Nose spent much time in his doing more than sleeping—that she thought his should have a different word.

  More interesting was learning that the two-legs had names for themselves. Fox Hair was called Derian. Mountain was Ox.

  Derian seemed uncertain what to name Hawk Nose. He tried various sounds. Then he shrugged and shook his head, dismissing them all. Firekeeper was fascinated and more than a little confused.

  Despite her pleasure in discovering that one could communicate with two-legs, when she heard Blind Seer call, she was eager to leave and join him.

  She rose, turning toward the forest. Fox Hair/Derian stood as well, his expression anxious. Blind Seer howled again.

  “Come, Firekeeper! I'm lonely!”

  Firekeeper smiled and started to walk toward the forest. Derian, to her surprise, for he had never before laid even a finger on her without permission, put his hand on her arm.

  She stopped, stared at him, and, seeing concern evident on his features, did not strike him. Perhaps two-legs, like wolves, touched for other reasons than to attack.

  Fox Hair gestured in the direction of Blind Seer's cry.

  “Wolf,” he said.

  Blind Seer howled again.

  “Wolf,” Derian repeated anxiously.

  Firekeeper gently pushed his hand from her arm and moved swiftly away. Before she stepped into the darkness of the trees, she turned to Fox Hair and nodded.

  “Wolf,” she agreed, and slipped into the night.

  V

  “BUT THIS CAN’T GO ON!” exclaimed Race Forester ester, eyes ablaze. “Tomorrow we cross the gap; a day III or two thereafter we're in populated lands. What happens then when Lady Blysse slips off into the night and runs about in the darkness?”

  There was a sneer in his voice when he said “Lady,” a sneer just this side of unforgivable cheek, but Earl Kestrel chose to overlook that insolence. No matter how rudely phrased, Race's point was reasonable.

  Each night since they had broken camp at the ruins of Bardenville, Blysse had left her tent and vanished into the night. What she did then, no one knew, but she returned each day shortly before dawn.

  They had made slower progress on their return east to civilization than they had on the way out. The first day Earl Kestrel had called halt after a half-day's travel, worried that the young woman would not have the stamina to pace the horses any longer. He might also have been prompted by the steady drizzle that had begun with first light and had never ceased—unless turning into intermittent sleet could be considered ceasing.

  The second day their start had been late, for the camp had remained on alert for many hours after Blysse had left Derian's side, in answer, it almost seemed, to a howl of a wolf in the darkness beyond. Only on her return had Earl Kestrel fallen into a restful sleep. The third day had been something of a repetition of the second, though Earl Kestrel had permitted Valet to convince him that wakeful watchfulness would do nothing to bring the girl back, that indeed it might do the opposite.

  The end of this fourth day of travel found them at the lower reaches of the gap. Tomorrow they would attempt the crossing, a long, hard day's work even for rested men. Al-though the earl had decreed an extra half-day for rest and preparation, no one was relaxing. Even calm Ox and unflappable Valet kept turning their gazes to the tree line, wondering what strange force might draw Blysse out into the unfriendly darkness night after night.

  Derian was the least happy of the lot. Looking at his charge clad in leather vest and rough knee breeches she had made by chopping off a pair of the earl's riding trousers just below her knees, she was a winsome figure, hardly female, impossible to place in any of the categories he had encountered traveling between Hawk Haven and Bright Bay on business with his father.

  To some eyes, as she sat busily untangling her brown locks with the comb he had shown her how to use three days be-fore, Blysse could be any girl, albeit a somewhat boyishly dressed one. To Derian, however, she had become more of an enigma for their several days of acquaintance rather than less.

  Upon their first meeting she had seemed a wild creature that had taken human shape. By their second, assured of her humanity, Derian had felt proprietary, even protective toward her. By the third meeting, the very one that had ended with Earl Kestrel giving Derian charge of her, Derian had felt certain of Blysse's intelligence and of her peculiar sense of humor.

  This day she was a stranger, calm and composed, apparently immune to the human storm that raged around her—as she should be. Although her vocabulary was growing at an amazing rate, what words she had were mostly nouns with a few simple additions such as Yes and No, Come and Go.

  “What do you suggest we do?” Earl Kestrel asked Race.

  “We should tie her,” the scout said firmly. “It's for her own safety, my lord. I don't want her arrow-shot by the first gamekeeper who takes her for a poacher.”

  “You don't?” the earl's inflection was ironic, but Derian doubted that the scout noticed. Race still believed that his envy of the woman's woodcraft was his own secret.

  “No, sir, I don't,” Race said earnestly. “Think of the man's shock when he finds a bit of a girl dead with his shaft in her breast and him facing your wrath for doing naught but his duty.”

  “Indeed,” said Earl Kestrel dryly, “not to mention the pitiable situation that Blysse should have survived ten years of privation to die so sordidly.”

  “That,” Race replied, suddenly aware of his tactlessness, “so goes without saying that I didn't bother mentioning it.”

  “Of course.” Earl Kestrel relented. “It has not escaped my notice that you have scouted in the vicinity of the camp following Blysse's return each dawn. Have you found any sign of where she goes or if she is meeting someone?”

  “None,” Race said, superstitious dread deepening his voice. “She leaves no more track than a spirit would. I've wondered…”

  Jared Surcliffe broke in, impatient with the earl's game of cat and mouse with the uneducated man.

  “If she's a restless spirit? Nonsense! I've examined her more closely now and no spirit would have so many scars—not to mention the cuts and bruises she gains each day. She has clean healing flesh, thank the ancestors of our house, or she would have died from some injury long since.”

  “If I thought she was a spirit,” Race countered defiantly, “would I have suggested putting a rope on her? My lord, it would be no more unkind than the jesses on a hawk or the leash on a dog. It's to keep her from harm in my way of thinking, not to do her some.”

  “And can you explain that to her?” Earl Kestrel said skeptically. “Derian, could Blysse understand such an idea?”

  Derian shrugged. “She's smart, my lord, but we don't have enough words.”

  “Mime it!” Race insisted.

  “When she's never seen—or at least has no memory of— the farmers or gamekeepers you would protect her from?” Derian scoffed. “How?”

  In answer, Race lifted a coil of rope and strode over to where Blysse was now interestedly watching.

  “I'l
l show you!” the scout retorted defiantly.

  He lifted the rope, uncoiled a section and held it out to the young woman.

  “Rope,” she said calmly.

  Much to Derian's despair, all items for binding, from the thinnest thread to horse hobbles to fish line, had, for the nonce, become rope. Doubtless Blysse thought Race's approach with rope in hand was another attempt to force her to discriminate. Mentally, he kicked himself for not teaching her the word “pavilion” for Earl Kestrel's larger tent that first night. The lack of discrimination seemed to have shaped her attitude toward the refinements of spoken language.

  With the ease of long practice, Race made a noose. Then, as Blysse watched in unguarded curiosity, he dropped it over her shoulders and pulled it fast, binding her arms tightly to her sides.

  Blysse looked startled, pushing out with her shoulders against the restraint. Her expression when she realized that she could not get free became furious: dark eyes narrowed, lips paling, brows pulled together.

  “See, my lord,” Race said triumphantly, turning slightly toward Earl Kestrel, leaning back on his heels so that his weight would keep the noose tight. “We can hold her this way and she can walk along or we can set her up on one of the mules. They've grown accustomed to her by now and…”

  He didn't finish for Blysse screamed, high, shrill, and angry. Her second such cry was echoed by one from the tops of the tallest trees; then a blue-grey streak plummeted toward the gathered men.

  Derian didn't think. Balling himself tight, he launched forward, knocking Race to the ground, rolling the other man with the force of his tackle so that the falcon's strike hit the ground inches from where the scout would have been standing.

  Race lost his grip on the rope and, as the falcon was taking wing again, Blysse clawed her way out of the loosened noose.

  Free, she stood poised lightly on the balls of her feet, Prince Barden's knife in her hand. Her dark gaze darted from Race to Derian to Kestrel then back again to Race.

  A low growl rumbling in her throat, she advanced one stiff-legged pace toward the prone man, then another.