Wolf's Eyes

by Jane Lindskold

  “We are in recess,” he replied. “When did you arrive?”

  “Early this morning,” Firekeeper said, “in a wagon with Doc. Blind Seer permitted himself to be covered with blankets, but still the horses shied when they caught his scent. I had to snarl at them most fiercely.”

  Derian Carter, more inclined than most would be to take Firekeeper literally, grinned.

  “We asked for you,” Firekeeper continued a trace reproachfully, “but we were told you were in a meeting. A note had been left for Doc and he told us what it said.”

  “The meeting was King Tedric's business,” Derian said in a tone of voice that warned her not to pursue the matter further. Then he turned his attention to the tirewoman who had been listening, curiosity warring with impatience.

  “I beg you, Goody,” Derian said, “to refrain from scolding Lady Blysse even when she acts in what must seem to you a foolish manner.”

  “But if she falls!” the woman began.

  “No one will blame you,” Derian soothed. “I assure you. No one who knows her well maintains for long the illusion that anyone but Lady Blysse is responsible for her actions.”

  Goody Sewer frowned, her critical gaze fixed on the young woman with clear dissatisfaction.

  Lady Blysse Kestrel did not fit the usual image of a young noblewoman. Lean and slim, almost to boyishness, Blysse wore scuffed brown leather trousers cut off below the knee and a matching leather vest. Her bare feet were dirty and calloused. Her only adornment—if such a practical item could be classified thus—was a sheathed hunting knife in whose pommel gleamed a large, deep red, cabochon cut garnet.

  “I came here,” the tirewoman explained, “to fit the young lady for her gowns and found her perched out on the parapet!”

  “Did she come inside when you called?” Derian asked.

  “Yes,” the woman admitted grudgingly.

  “Then all is well,” Derian concluded. “Please, go ahead with your fitting. I won't get in the way. I have a few minutes before I need to return to my meeting.”

  Firekeeper hid a grin, but Blind Seer, cheerfully aware that no one but Firekeeper would understand what he said, commented,

  “Fox-hair is determined to pull the woman's tail. What has she done to him?”

  “If” Firekeeper replied in the same language, “she has been acting toward him as this castle's staff did to Doc when we arrived, she has been treating him as if he is as untrained and untried as I was when first I came forth from the forests.”

  “Well” Blind Seer said philosophically, “when the moon was last full this seamstress served another mistress, and her pack and Derian's were vowed enemies. Not everyone has taken well to the changes.”

  Firekeeper nodded and, to the evident shock of Goody Sewer, began undoing the carved toggles that held her vest closed over her small but definite breasts.

  “Lady Blysse!” the woman shrilled.

  “Derian has seen me without clothes before,” Firekeeper said with a patience she didn't feel and continued to undress.

  Derian, however, perhaps feeling he had teased the woman enough, politely turned his back.

  “I have been Lady Blysse's personal attendant these last six or so moonspans,” he explained, “but my starveling waif has become a young lady. I shall remember her modesty even though she does not.”

  The tirewoman who—no matter what she pretended—could not have failed to hear the stories of how Lady Blysse had been discovered in the wilds west of the Iron Mountains early the past spring, sniffed but did not pursue the subject. Indeed, Goody Sewer's easy acceptance of Blind Seer—as terrifyingly huge a wolf as any storyteller could dream—gave lie to her pretended ignorance and haughty indignation. That she trusted Blind Seer would not make dinner of her meant she had heard something of Lady Blysse's peculiar history.

  “Try this gown on first,” was all the tirewoman said. She held up a long-sleeved gown in dark blue fabric, banded at wrist and throat by ribbons in the Kestrel sky-blue and scarlet. “I had the pattern cut along the measurements the post-rider brought, but there will certainly need to be alterations.”

  Firekeeper, now naked except for her underclothing, stepped into the gown and let the woman fasten it. As she stood, trembling slightly at the proximity of a near stranger, she asked Derian:

  “How is Elation? We have not seen her since we arrived.”

  Derian tone grew worried as he replied, “She was with me until shortly before I arrived at the city,” he said. “Then she took off. Last I saw her, she was flying west.”

  Firekeeper was also concerned. The peregrine falcon had taken quite a liking to Derian and wouldn't have left him without good reason. Still, she decided there was no need to worry the young man further.

  “The hunting birds,” she offered, “migrate like most other winged folk. It could be that her blood called her.”

  She grinned suddenly, remembering how once Derian had not believed her when she said she could understand what animals said to her.

  “It's not as if Elation could tell you where she was going,” she added.

  Derian chuckled. “That's true. How are you feeling these days? You look well.”

  “Doc says that my wounds are healed,” Firekeeper replied, “though I will have some new scars.”

  A sniff from the tirewoman indicated that she had noticed the liberal patterning of scars across Firekeeper's skin. Not one of the young woman's limbs was free from the silver and white lines: some mere gossamer tracery, a few heavily seamed with scar tissue. Two comparatively fresh scars—one on Firekeeper's back, the other along her thigh—remained Hvid red fading along the edges into dull pink.

  With his back turned, Derian's expression couldn't be seen, but his voice expressed his satisfaction at the news.

  “Well, you can't expect to get away without any marks. You were nearly dead from your injuries and even Doc's healing talent can't free you from all the consequences of your impulsiveness.”

  Firekeeper recognized the teasing note in Derian's voice and let the apparent insult stand, though comingfromanother the accusation that she had acted without thought would have been a fighting matter.

  At a prod from the tirewoman, Firekeeper raised her right arm so that Goody Sewer could adjust the pins in that sleeve.

  “Doc has gone to learn what is expected of him for the wedding,” Firekeeper said to distract herself. And to see if he can “accidentally” meet with a certain young lady, she thought, but she said nothing, respecting Sir Jared Surcliffe's dignity.

  “Doubtless,” Derian said, “he will take the time to familiarize himself with the public areas of this fine castle.

  Again, something in Derian's tone—this time a warm undercurrent of laughter—made Firekeeper suspect that he had understood her unspoken thoughts as well as what she said aloud.

  “I hear that we were among the last of the Hawk Haven wedding guests to arrive,” Firekeeper continued, realizing to her astonishment that she was making conversation—a concept she would not have understood five moonspans before.

  “Only the mother of the bride,” Derian said, a note of tension entering his voice, “has failed to arrive. Some say that she will not attend, recently widowed as she is.”

  “Furious at her daughter” Blind Seer commented, “if the truth would be known.”

  Derian, of course, didn't hear the wolf's comment, and went on:

  “Lord Rolfston's death is less than two moonspan's past,” he said, “but still many consider Lady Melina's absence a bad omen for the marriage.”

  Goody Sewer spoke around the pins held in her pursed lips. “How can it be a good omen if die mother of the bride—the proximate ancestress—refuses to attend? I say that Duke… King Allister should postpone the wedding until appropriate mourning fpr the bride's father is ended and her mother is willing to attend.”

  “You aren't the only one who thinks that,” Derian said easily, “but King Allister is of another mind—as is his son, Shad.
If Shad is willing to risk bad omens on his wedding day, I say we should support him. It's important to seal the truce between Bright Bay and Hawk Haven.”

  Goody Sewer could hardly disagree without seeming openly disloyal to her new monarch and his heir apparent, but her silence was eloquent. The chime of distant bells made any reply unnecessary.

  'Time for me to return to the meeting,” Derian said. “See you later, Firekeeper.”

  “I hope so,” Firekeeper replied.

  Firekeeper smiled after the retreating figure. It was good to be back with her first human friend. In the wash of plea-sure she barely heard die tirewoman's question.

  “Excuse me,” she said politely. “I wasn't listening.”

  “I could tell that!” the older woman griped. “I said you can take off that gown and try on the next one.”

  Firekeeper cooperated, being careful not to damage the fabric or snag the ribbons. The next gown Goody Sewer handed her was the silvery grey of a wood dove's plumage and deliciously soft. It reminded Firekeeper of thefirstfabric she'd ever touched—a lamb's wool shirt Derian had given her.

  “Who was that arrogant red-head?” the tirewoman asked, twitching straight the gown's long skirt, then lowering herself on creaking knees to pin the hem. “I've seen him about these past several days, ever since the contingent from Eagle's Nest arrived, but never to speak to. He gives himself airs.”

  Firekeeper thought that a less true thing had never been said about her friend and she carefully framed her reply.

  “He's Derian,” she said, smoothing the sleeve of the gown against her arm, “Derian Carter. Some are calling him Derian Counselor since the war.”

  She barred her teeth in a gleeful grin that was not completely kind.

  “He's one of Earl Kestrel's retainers and youngest counselor to King Tedric of Hawk Haven,” she continued, taking wolf-like pride in the strength of her pack. “A very important person.”

  The astonishment and consternation on the tirewoman's face when the old woman looked up from her pinning was precisely the reward for which Firekeeper had hoped.