Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart

by Jane Lindskold

  The only thing he didn't share was what Elise had confided in him, but no one would have expected that from him—not even Cook, who was the most accomplished gossip in the marketplace.

  When Derian finished, the hour was truly late, for the telling had taken nearly as long as the doing. Derian padded up to his room in his stocking feet and was just undressed and under the covers when there was a tap on his door, and Vernita entered. She sat on the edge of his bed as if for all the world he was still Brock's age.

  "I just wanted you to know, Derian, that if running a stable or breeding blood horses is what you want, well that's fine with me and your father. We spoke seriously to you the other day about the possibilities open for your future, but never think we'd disown you or be disappointed if you chose another way."

  She bent and kissed his forehead.

  "We're proud of you, son."

  For a moment, Derian didn't trust himself to speak. When he found his voice, he said a bit rustily, "I love you, too, Mother."

  He thought about asking her about what Heather had said, about the baker and about lost romances, but by the time his tired brain could frame the questions, he had fallen sound asleep.

  Chapter XIII

  When the glade filled once again with the graceful and impressive figures of the Royal Beasts, the sky still held faint light, but the interwoven branches of the overarching trees sufficiently dampened the reddish glow so that it was as if shadows rather than substance kept company therein.

  The first to pick up the tale was a Beast that Firekeeper had not noticed earlier in the day, a boar raccoon so burly and powerful that he might have been taken for a small bear. In the direct fashion of the Beasts, he did not waste breath on preamble, but took up the account precisely where the vixen had left off.

  "And so we traded land for security and once we were gone from their ken, the humans preferred to forget our existence. A few adventurous types made forays into the mountains and occasionally beyond, coming after furs and such other things as humans treasure. Royal policy remained avoidance rather than confrontation, so those humans who returned told of thick forests, of untamed lands, of clear streams, but never of our kind."

  The raccoon paused then and in the dim light Firekeeper, who knew how to see in the dark far better than did a human, could see him twisting and intertwining his dexterous black fingers as if undecided how best to continue.

  Glancing about the glade, she saw signs of the same indecision and wondered at it. Before she could whisper a question into the One Female's ear, the puma gave an arrogant stretch and snapped his long, tawny tail against the rock.

  "Much time passed," the puma said with a growling purr. "How much, we cannot say precisely, for Beasts do not record time as humans do. Moreover, our lives—though long by comparison with those of the Cousins—are often shorter than those of humans. We think of time in terms of seasons—the summer when the deer ran as fat and thick as blackberries in a thicket or the winter when the cold was so severe that even the water in the deepest lakes and fastest running rivers froze.

  "Suffice to say that much time passed. We never forgot humans, but some of our fear abated, for they seemed content to stay east of the Iron Mountains and to fight among themselves rather than trouble us. We told our cubs and pups, fawns, piglets, and fledglings enough to keep them cautious, listened when the wingéd folk brought happy news of war or sorrowful news of wide-sailed ships, and returned to our ways.

  "Then came the day a raven—or was it a crow?—brought a curious tale."

  "It was a raven," said the raven, interrupting without fear of the long claws that suddenly unsheathed from the puma's paws and scraped against the rock. "And this part of the tale is mine."

  The enormous black bird fluffed out the feathers on his legs and neck, made a seeming of ears grow upon his head, and strutted up and down in front of Firekeeper—a clownish yet somehow also frightening sight.

  "The tale the raven brought was one of death," the raven croaked in a voice so ancient and hoarse that Firekeeper found herself convinced that this was the very raven who had borne the tale. "Death, but not from war, not from age, not even from murder or from intrigue. This was death from sickness—a sickness that spread with the speed of breath or touch, a sickness that caused the victim to burn from within not so much with fever but as if a secret fire that fed on the human spirit had been kindled within."

  "We ravens watched freely and openly, for the deaths were so frequent and so plentiful that there was not a town or village, castle or cottage that lacked its flock of carrion eaters. Any who saw us glimpsed in our vast wingspans and triumphant swagger omens of their own deaths.

  "Now you may ask," the raven said, turning a bright, beady eye on the listening wolf-woman, "were we not risking the wrath of the sorcerers? Initially, we were indeed chary of these, but some moonspans of watching taught us a great and wonderful thing. Those who burned fastest and brightest and who never ever recovered from the plague were those who practiced sorcery. From the merest apprentice to the mightiest wizard, they died.

  "The talented fared somewhat better, but among these too—as far as we could tell—not a one escaped the sickness. Some of these, however, did mend. Nor did those without any hint of magical gift escape the plague, but among them it was more likely to leave behind battered, broken, and shaken souls who—if they escaped further illness, starvation, or murder at the hands of the wild ones who, seeing death all around, forgot law—then they might live."

  The One Female rubbed her muzzle against Firekeeper's arm, for the feral woman had started to tremble at this cool account of chaos.

  Firekeeper understood now why the humans always spoke of the plague in hushed voices and hurried on to other subjects. Even as a thing many more than a hundred years gone, it was terrible to contemplate.

  She suspected, too, why there was so little magical talent among the Great Houses of Hawk Haven and—as far as she knew—Bright Bay and elsewhere. The plague had killed those with sorcery, weakened those with a trace of talent, and left those without either to rise to power.

  Fleetingly, she wondered if Zorana the Great, so revered in Hawk Haven, had been among those the Royal Beasts termed the "wild ones," the forgetters of law, but further speculation on this must wait, for a crow had taken up the tale from the raven.

  It cawed loudly as if realizing that Firekeeper's attention had fled, and said:

  "Seeing how the Fire Plague touched those with talent, we feared for ourselves and our own, since—as you know—talents occur among Royal Kind. But these fears proved rootless. Even those among the ravens and crows who had dined on the flesh of sorcerers killed by the plague—a thing we did with enthusiasm and glee before we realized there might be danger of contagion—even these remained firm and fit and healthy.

  "After much time, the Fire Plague burned itself to ashes and was no more seen, but by then the world had been transformed. The population of humans in this land had been reduced to a quarter of its former size—not all by plague, but by the attendant menaces the raven has already mentioned as well. There were no sorcerers remaining in the land and an aversion to sorcery in any form—extending in some places to even the relatively innocent talents—had become universal among humanity.

  "Moreover, the Old Country rulers who had once dominated these colonies fled early in the plague cycle. Perhaps they hoped for healing in their homelands—for by all reports the use of magic there was so prevalent as to make what we saw here seem nothing. If so, they were disappointed, for the Fire Plague had burned more fiercely in those lands.

  "However, we crows believe that they fled because many of them had been cruel and contemptuous rulers, and they feared the retribution of their subject peoples even more than they feared the plague. Those foreign-born who remained were more likely to die, though whether this was because they possessed more latent magic or whether they were simply less hearty, having had others to perform all labor for them, is a matter we never
have resolved."

  "Or," muttered the bear, "cared to resolve. It was enough to have them gone."

  A jay took up the narrative as if the bear's interruption had been intended.

  "Indeed, we cared not a dry berry husk. Other questions were raised at our councils—practically from the moment that we realized the extent of the plague and what it was likely to do to our onetime enemies.

  "The foremost of these questions was whether we should finish what the plague had begun. Should we wipe humans from the face of the land? There was much contention on this point, but in the end the lesson of the songbirds was recalled and the council decided to let humans live as they had lived before—with one exception.

  "One of the things that had made sorcery so terrible to us was that its power could be separated from its creator. We decided that these objects of power could not be left in human hands, that we would steal them, one and all, and…"

  There was a slight awkward pause, and once again Firekeeper felt that something was being held back.

  "And," chattered on the jay with perhaps a trace too much haste, "so keep them from being used against us in the future when humans might have forgotten their fear of sorcery. We were helped in this course by the humans themselves. Many a sorcerer's stronghold was burnt from the library outward, many a wand or staff was tossed into the flames. Still, there was work for us to do."

  The One Female spoke. "Nor did we larger creatures leave all the thieving to the jays and crows and ravens. Royal Wolf packs crossed the mountains for the first time in living memory. We hunted down those bandits who had taken booty from their dead masters and when the bandits were dead themselves our wingéd allies bore away the spoils. Pumas hung from tree limbs and screamed from crags so that horses fled in terror. Herds of elk blockaded armies, braving arrows and spears to hold them. Clever-fingered raccoons and sly foxes slipped into camps and cottages, and removed artifacts tied into bags and boxes.

  "Doubtless we took things that were not sorcerous in nature, for it was then a rare talent among us to be able to scent magic. Doubtless innocent books were consigned to flames, but we wished to be thorough.

  "Even then," the One Female continued, "we had heard rumors of what Gustin Sailor possessed, but he had fled to a stronghold and always had an army about him. Since his contention with his former allies was over those very objects, Gustin Sailor took care never to let them leave his keeping, for he could not trust that Zorana Shield might not force or bribe someone to steal the enchanted artifacts from him."

  "When," added the doe almost kindly, "the Royal Beasts saw no indication of magic being used by this first Gustin or the Gustins who followed him or indeed by any in his court or household, we thought the rumors were as dry grass: filling, but without solid sustenance. We thought that he—as had many of our own—might have been fooled by a certain shine or elegance in crafting into believing that such an ornate thing must be sorcerous."

  "And," asked Firekeeper, "do you know otherwise now?"

  The doe said honestly, "We do not, but we fear lest there be truth in the tales. Queen Valora—according to our spies—is an angry woman, one who would unleash a rabid dog even at the risk of being bitten herself. She has never seen the Fire Plague, has only a faint dread of magic. Now, like the sorcerers of old, she may see only a means to power, to domination of those who bested her, and to rulership."

  "Your spies?" Firekeeper asked.

  "The wingéd folk," screeched an eagle with pride, "have not let humans go completely unobserved. We resist being taken captive—though this has happened from time to time—but as you have already been told, we continue to watch. During this last war our spies knew where Queen Gustin IV lurked, letting others fight her battles, and we knew the fury she concealed at being stripped of her place."

  Without much hope, Firekeeper said, "Cannot your own agents steal these objects? I cannot cross the ocean without being noticed, nor can I walk into the queen's stronghold. What about the clever-fingered raccoons or the sly foxes or those famous thieves—the ravens and crows?"

  Murmurs rose at this protest and Firekeeper realized that some of the Royal Beasts were no more pleased by her possible involvement than she was herself. Murmurs became roars and screeches, howls and hoots and growls.

  Perceiving that the council had degenerated into unredeemable argument, the raven adjourned the meeting again, this time until midmorning, so as to permit time for sleeping and hunting.

  Shortly before dawn, when she had fed and run and chased some of the fear from her soul, Firekeeper curled herself for sleep between the warm bodies of the One Female and Blind Seer.

  The blue-eyed wolf, who had listened to all that had been said but had held his tongue as was proper for a young wolf in the company of his elders, now asked his first question:

  "Mother, what is the lesson of the songbirds?"

  "Hush," the One Female said, lifting her silver-furred head and scanning the forest with amber eyes. "This is not the time or place for that tale. Ask another night and I may tell you, though in truth it belongs to the lore of the Ones."

  Wolf-obedient, Blind Seer submitted to her wisdom—knowing as always that it was backed up by the threat of her fangs.

  Firekeeper wondered some as she drifted off to sleep, but her mind was so full of new thoughts that she could not hold another.

  Winter or not, the royal contingent from Bright Bay did not leave Eagle's Nest the moment the wedding celebrations were concluded. Indeed, the weather took one of those turns toward bright days and sunshine that often happen in early winter, the type of weather that causes the optimists to predict a mild winter and the pessimists to grumble about threats of summer drought.

  Instead, there followed a whirl of parties, receptions, balls, and banquets that would be talked about for years to come. Everyone was giddy with the promise of peace after a century of intermittent war—or at least everyone acted as if this was so.

  Certainly there were those among the dancers and diners who must be less than happy with the changes that had been made and changes that were to come, but these had the sense to keep their mouths shut. Most of these, in fact, were more interested in finding out how they could best benefit from the new order—if new order there was to be—without sacrificing the prerogatives they had claimed under the old.

  As a member of the official diplomatic contingent accompanying Duke Marek of Half-Moon Island, Baron Endbrook was invited practically everywhere. He used his time well, mostly making business contacts for his shipping fleet, for he found many of Hawk Haven's noble-born were almost pathetically enchanted with the sea, as is so often the case when a thing is alien and strange.

  However, Waln also found opportunity to speak with the diplomats from New Kelvin. Even in their homeland, the New Kelvinese's peculiar manner of dress and facial ornamentation—which was echoed to greater or lesser degree through all levels of society—had been astonishing. Here in Hawk Haven, where even a lady's cosmetics were styled to look as natural as possible, the New Kelvinese seemed to belong to another race.

  And that may be their intention, the baron thought, given their damned superior attitude—though if that was the case, they wouldn't bother with the stuff at home, would they?

  The custom followed by both men and women of the New Kelvinese upper classes—at least Waln thought they were the upper classes—of shaving the hair at the front of their heads, back to just before the tops of their ears, and wearing the hair long behind conferred a curious androgyny.

  This androgynous appearance was assisted by the ornate, floor-length robes the New Kelvinese wore. These gorgeous garments were usually silk and often heavily embroidered. However, the weight of the fabric and the cut of the robe masked all but the most obvious physical cues to gender.

  The New Kelvinese diplomats—there were three in the group—all affected a mincing gait, rather as if their curly-tipped shoes were too tight. It should have looked funny, but instead conferred a peculiar d
ignity—something like the stiltedly deliberate walk of a praying mantis.

  Happily for Waln, the New Kelvinese were known throughout the region as purveyors of goods that could be found nowhere else. Best known, of course, were their silks and carpets, but they also sold herbs and powders. Some of these were medicinal, but others seemed to serve no purpose but to induce strange dreams and visions. And then there was their glass—a difficult item to ship, but worth the effort for its fine, clear colors.

  Since Duke Marek had styled Waln as the Isle's Minister for Trade, the baron's frequent conversations with the New Kelvinese excited no comment. During these meetings, they promised him accommodations upon his arrival, gave him maps with the best routes to Dragon's Breath from Hawk Haven marked out, and smiled darkly when he refused to name who he was bringing with him.

  Of course the bastards know, Waln thought in annoyance. They couldn't fail to know—as Queen Valora herself said, there simply aren't many who are willing to claim knowledge of the sorcerous arts.

  Momentarily, a suspicion flickered into his mind that this entire intrigue was a charade to get him to escort Lady Melina to New Kelvin. He dismissed the idea as idiotic. If the New Kelvinese wanted her to come, all they needed to do was invite her. Her fervent interest in their land and its secrets had been obvious.

  To comfort himself, Warn Endbrook dreamed of a duke-dom. He'd settle for Dog Island, where he had been born, and if any there thought to call him "Walnut"…

  He smirked as he thought about the things he could do with a title and a queen behind him.

  Wlise couldn't decide whether the huge stack of invitations that arrived by every post, as well as by hand, was a welcome or unwelcome distraction from the darker concerns haunting her.

  Some were very welcome, such as the one from Duchess Kestrel, for Elise could be fairly certain that both Derian and Jared would be present at that gathering.