Wolf's Eyes

by Jane Lindskold

  Firekeeper snorted, more disgusted with herself than for any other reason, but she didn't anticipate another formal banquet with any joy.

  “Must I go?” she pleaded.

  “Yes,” Derian said firmly. “Earl Kestrel is quite delighted with this notice.”

  “Very well,” she said, “to make my guardian happy, I will go.”

  Derian patted her sympathetically on one shoulder. “I have the tub ready in my room. Hurry and bathe. If you don't take too long, you should be able to spend an hour or so in the garden with Holly. Just don't get filthy all over again.”

  Firekeeper had a wolf's fastidious nature—a thing that might surprise those who thought of the carnivores as filthy, ravening beasts delighting in blood and gore. In reality, if water was available, wolves bathed after a kill or after eating.

  Freshly scmbbed, her hair caught up in a queue behind, dressed in a pair of leather trousers and matching vest, Firekeeper hurried off to the gardens. Holly was resting on one of the benches, enjoying a tumbler of well water seasoned with crashed spearmint.

  “I thought you were coming,” she said, patting the bench beside her. “Your falcon arrived a moment ago.”

  “Elation,” Firekeeper said seriously, “is not my falcon. She just stay with me.”

  “It works out to about the same,” Holly replied peacefully, “as I see it.”

  “What are you doing today?” Firekeeper asked, eager to learn more of the mysteries of gardening.

  “Mostly resting, child. It's hot this afternoon. I wonder that you don't wear something lighter.”

  Firekeeper stroked the leather possessively. “It protects. If not wear clothes to protect, why wear at all?”

  “I,” Holly said with a soft, secret laugh, “would think that you had figured that out by now, but if you haven't…”

  Firekeeper had heard that type of chuckle before and said scornfully, “I know about mating. This is not the season. I do not need fine plumage.”

  “For men,” Holly replied, a hint of warning in her tone “it is always the season. Never mind, child…”

  “What are you doing today?” Firekeeper repeated, feeling that this conversation was taking her out of her depth and as usual, not liking the feeling at all.

  “I was weeding-around the acom squash, but now I'm resting.” Holly sipped her drink. “I don't have your energy child. After all, I'm old enough to be your grandmother.”

  “Is there still weeding?”

  “Always.”

  “Where?”

  Without leaving her bench, Holly gave Firekeeper directions. Once Firekeeper had settled into pulling the runner grass from between the rows of squash vines, she asked, hoping to prompt a story:

  “You say you old enough to be my grandmother. Do you have grandchildren?”

  “I do,” Holly replied. “Do you recall the head gardener?”

  Firekeeper had met the intense little man with his fussy manners, had noted his nervous way of eyeing Blind Seer as if he expected the wolf to dig up the rose gardens at the least notice. She was not certain at all that she liked the head gardener but had learned enough castle etiquette not to openly question those in positions of authority.

  She granted a noncommittal “Yes.”

  “He is my oldest son.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Once upon a time, I was the head gardener, but when my knees got creaky, King Tedric permitted me to pass the title on to my son, even as my father once passed it to me. It's an inheritance after a fashion, as real as property or money.”

  “Head Gardener is your son?”

  “That's right.”

  “But he's so…” Firekeeper waved her hands, mimicking the head gardener's mincing motions.

  Holly laughed, not denying the truth, but not condemning the man either.

  “But he is also a very good gardener. I suspect he will learn to relax as he ages. Being around gardens does that to you. In any case, Timin—that's my son's name—has three children of his own. The elder two are already learning the craft. You may have seen them about: Dan and Robyn.”

  Firekeeper had seen them, hardworking towheads dressed in matching smocks and sandals. Her estimation of Timin Gardener went up a notch. At least he didn't spare his children work to their eventual detriment. The two gardener sprigs took their tasks seriously and if they paused to chase a butterfly or admire a spider's web, they didn't expect others to make excuses for them just because their father was the head gardener.

  She'd seen something of what such sloughing off of responsibility could do in Citrine's sisters, Ruby and Opal, and in Kenre's sisters, Nydia and Deste. Those middle girls were becoming spoiled weak things who didn't seem to have any purpose in life but learning how to be noblewomen. They seemed to think a good marriage the best they could do for themselves, unlike Sapphire and Elise, whose training as heirs had made them value themselves for what they could do.

  Firekeeper sighed, remembering that the middle girls would be at dancing practice today. She dreaded their sneers and giggles at her missteps, at her inability to hear the guidance the music offered her feet. To distract herself from that dreary prospect, Firekeeper asked:

  “Do you have any other children or grandchildren?”

  Holly nodded. “I have a daughter who married a fisherman and lives by the seacoast. She has two children and I expect will have more. My younger son hasn't yet married—too restless. He's in the military.”

  A sad expression flitted across Holly's wrinkled face. “And I had another daughter who is now dead. She was among those who followed Prince Barden across the mountains.”

  “Oh!” Firekeeper felt strange. “Then I may have known her when I was very small.”

  “I had thought of that,” Holly admitted. “I suppose that's why at first I was so glad to make your acquaintance. In a way, you were a link to my daughter.”

  “What was her name?” Firekeeper asked, sitting back on her heels, a weed dangling from her hand.

  “Sarena, Sarena Gardener. Her husband was Donal Hunter. They had a little girl named Tamara.”

  She looked so expectant that Firekeeper felt almost ill, for those names meant nothing to her. She hated to disappoint the old woman, but she shook her head slowly.

  “I'm sorry. I don't remember. I was very small when die fire came.”

  Holly wiped away a tear that had somehow appeared on her withered cheek and smiled” bravely.

  “That's all right, dearie. I didn't expect that you would.”

  Firekeeper knew that her friend was lying and that truth made her feel all the worse.

  XIII

  “AND AS I STAND here on the border between life and death,” sang the minstrel, his coat of feathers and III twine as marvelous as the soaring reaches of his voice, “as here I stand, one hand clutching the sword blade and the other pressed against the heart of my love, pushing her back, saving her from death, in the wash of blood across my face at last I see the truth, dark truth, black as dry blood…”

  The minstrel's voice rose, became sweeter still, “She loves me not at all!”

  Elise knew by heart the story of which the minstrel sang. It was as old as the kingdom, the tale of a man whose fingers were sliced off one by one as he defended his faithless lover.

  She hated the first part of the song, always found herself holding her breath as the man catalogued the cold realities that sliced his soul far more cruelly than the sword did his hand. Breath trapped aching in her chest, she waited for the second verse, where the man, accepting truth in place of the lies that had been so dear to him, watched hisfingersregrow again one by one.

  “Red baptism, dripping from my brow, through the rose of new vision, I see her laughing at my pale offering—bent fingers on our cottage floor…”

  Seeking to distract herself until the hopeful verses began, Elise glanced at Jet, wondering how he was responding to this classic story of love and betrayal. In the several days that had passed since she ha
d visited with Firekeeper and Sir Jared in the castle gardens, she had found herself giving Jet many such glances: wondering what he thought and dreamed, dreading that he was hollow but for ambition.

  Elise had always imagined herself in the place of the man in the song, the faithful one, believing in love despite all obstacles. Now she dreaded that she might be more like the faithless lover than she had ever dreamed. She shoved these thoughts away in real terror, discovering that she had become a stranger even to herself.

  Now as she looked upon her betrothed's black-browed face, she thought he looked bored. Then she realized that Jet was not watching the minstrel at all, that what she had taken for boredom was carefully guarded neutrality. Following the direction of Jet's gaze, she saw that a soldier had mounted the king's dais and was handing Tedric a letter many times folded and secured with bright seals. The woman's uniform was dusty and her face expressionless—or was there a touch of pity on those dirty features?

  Gamely, the minstrel continued his verses, but no one heard him and only Kenre Tmeheart, too young to have wondered what messenger would dare interrupt the king at his meat, patted his hands together in applause when the entertainer made his awkward bow and gratefully ducked behind a curtain concealing a door out of the banquet hall.

  Afterward, Elise remembered this unfinished ballad as a bad omen.

  KING TEDRIC AND QUEEN ELEXA departed the hall almost as soon as the packet was placed in the king's hand and a few words were exchanged with the weary messenger. The gathered nobility was courteously invited to remain and continue enjoying the entertainment, but no one had ears for the music. Hands reached for goblets of wine by reflex rather than to savor the fine vintages.

  Steward Silver escorted the messenger from the hall with a swiftness that made any cross-examination impossible, but this did not keep conjecture at bay. If anything, it added to it. Fragments of information were welded into improbable theories.

  Elise listened to the scattered scraps that drifted up and down the long tables:

  “The stablemaster said that she came in without escort and her horse was blown. It may be ruined.”

  “They have the messenger sequestered in a private room. Steward Silver herself is waiting on her. No one else is being permitted close. I wonder what they fear the messenger will say?”

  “My maid just happened to be passing down the hallway when a servant came by carrying the messenger's soiled uni-form. She said that she's certain that it bore signs of a battle. One sleeve hung as if nearly sliced off.”

  “Did you see the king's expression when he spoke with the messenger? There must have been some terrible tragedy!”

  Initially, Elise was as eager as any of die others to gather scraps and piece them into a crazy quilt of possible event. Then a sudden weariness and unnamed sorrow seized her. Making her excuses, she left the hall. She was heading for her rooms when she remembered that Ninette would be waiting there, eager to continue the cycle of gossip and conjecture.

  Although the evening was dark, Elise slipped out a side door into the garden. The moon was half-fiill and bright enough to navigate by, though the garden seemed robbed of color. By moonlight, Elise found refuge among the roses, their scent heavy in the hot, damp summer air. She bent her head to breathe deeply of their perfume. When she raised her head, she discovered that she was not alone.

  A slim figure leaned against an arched trellis overgrown with pale roses. Even in the dim light, Elise could tell the figure was another woman, dressed in a long, formal gown. When the woman moved, Elise knew her.

  “Firekeeper,” she said softly.

  “Yes,” came the equally soft reply. “I saw you come out. What is happening?”

  “News from the army, I think,” Elise said. “I don't know any more than that. I don't think anyone knows any more.”

  “Oh.” A long silence, then Firekeeper asked, “I don't understand.”

  “Neither,” Elise admitted, “do I. How can they build such elaborate pictures out of guesses?”

  She glanced around. “Where is Derian?”

  “Inside, making guesses.” Firekeeper's laugh was throaty.

  “He doesn't worry about me in the darkness, especially since Blind Seer is always near. He said he worries about those in the darkness who might meet me!”

  Elise laughed in turn. “Shall we walk then? My head is muzzy with wine and too much talk.”

  She saw the pale oval of Firekeeper's face nod agreement. Side by side, they strolled down the curving paths. More than once, Elise felt Firekeeper's hand on her arm, steering her away from a collision with a bush or other obstacle.

  “Can you see in the dark?” she asked.

  “See, like in daylight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not really.” Firekeeper shook her head.

  Elise heard rather than saw the motion, felt the breath of air against her bare shoulders.

  “I cannot see in the darkness,” the other continued. “More I know how to see the dark, to know what is there. Wolves hunt much at night, so I must learn darkness or I must starve.”

  Elise heard Firekeeper stumble, heard a soft curse, smiled, wondering if Derian had taught it to his charge intentionally.

  “Why,” Firekeeper asked plaintively, “do women wear these dresses?”

  Elise might have laughed, but she could hear the frustration in the other woman's voice.

  “Because,” she offered slowly, “dresses make a woman look attractive and graceful.”

  Firekeeper snorted. “I am not graceful in a dress.”

  Having seen Firekeeper treading on her hem on the dance floor, Elise could not deny the truth of this statement. More-over, Elise had learned that the other didn't understand polite social lies.

  “No, you are not,” she admitted, “but that's because you have never learned to walk in a skirt. You must shorten your stride just a little, not step out like a soldier on parade.”

  “I am not so noisy as a soldier,” Firekeeper protested.

  “No, you are not. You're even graceful in your own way—like a panther or a wolf—but not like a woman.”

  “But I am a woman,” Firekeeper responded in the tones of one to whom this was still a matter for debate. “How can what I do be not like a woman?”

  Unlike her cousin Sapphire, who rode well and enjoyed hunting, Elise had always preferred quieter pursuits. Still, she recalled some of Sapphire's loudly voicedfrustrationswhen Melina had moderated her daughter's wilder behavior. Al-though she disliked Melina, Elise found the very arguments Melina had presented to Sapphire rising to her lips.

  “You cannot escape that you are a woman,” she began.

  “I wish I could,” Firekeeper muttered, but Elise continued as if she hadn't heard.

  “Since you cannot, you cannot escape the expectations that our society and our class places upon women.”

  “Why?” Firekeeper said querulously.

  “Just listen to me for a moment,” Elise insisted. “Since people will expect a young woman of a noble house—and you are of one ever since Duchess Kestrel permitted her son to adopt you—to know certain manners of behavior, you must know them.”

  “Circles,” Firekeeper complained, “like a pup biting its tail. I am this so I must be that. I am that so I must be this. Tell me, how will this little foot walking keep me alive?”

  Elise resisted the urge to reply, “By keeping you from falling on your face.” She already knew that the literal-minded Firekeeper wouldrespondthat this problem could be avoided by letting her wear what she wanted.

  “Consider,” she offered, “what you told me about learning to see at night so that you could hunt with the wolves. Learning to wear a gown, to walk gracefully, to eat politely… “

  “I do that!”

  “You're learning,” Elise admitted, “but don't change the, subject. AH of these are ways of learning to see in the dark.”

  “Maybe,” Firekeeper said, her tone unconvinced.

  “Ca
n you climb a tree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Swim?”

  “Yes!” This second affirmative was almost indignant.

  “And these skills let you go places that you could not go without them.”

  Stubborn silence. Elise pressed her point.

  “Why do you like knowing how to shoot a bow?”

  “It lets me kill farther,” came the answer, almost in a growl.

  “And using a sword does the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me tell you, Firekeeper, knowing a woman's arts can keep you alive, let you invade private sanctums, even help you to subdue your enemies. If you don't know those arts, others who do will always have an advantage over you.”

  “All this from wearing a gown that tangles your feet?”

  “If you know how to wear it,” Elise leapt onto a stone bench, her long skirts swirling around her like bird's wings, “you can seem to fly.”

  THE NEXT DAY, King Tedric summoned into private conference those heads of the Great Houses who were in the capital or their representatives. He also included his brother and sister, Grand Duke Gadman and Grand Duchess Rosene. Anyone else was denied, entrance, a thing that forced several of the competitors for the throne to swallow their rage when Earl Kestrel was admitted as representative for his absent mother, the duchess.

  Some hours later, the conferees emerged, uniformly somber. Yet, despite the solemnity, the same inner glow lit the eyes of Earl Kestrel, the grand duke, and the grand duchess, leaving observers to comment that the king must have said something decisive regarding the appointment of his heir.

  As soon as the conference had,ended, Earl Kestrel summoned Firekeeper and Derian to him. At his orders, Ox mounted guard at the door and Race was sent to linger near the entry from the gardens, just in case someone tried to slip in from that direction. With his usual tact, Jared Surcliffe had made himself politely absent.

  'The king has sworn us to silence about what occurred at the meeting,” Kestrel said, “but Lady Blysse, you must be prepared.”