Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart

by Jane Lindskold

  Firekeeper did not much care for this assumption that her participation had been agreed upon, but she was so awed by the elk's offer that she was temporarily rendered mute.

  "And," said the Mother Kestrel, "several of the wingéd folk—corvid kin and raptors both—will risk the crossing of the Iron Mountains ahead of you. We will be your far-flung eyes and ears so that you do not chase down this box only to learn you have been tracking echoes."

  "And we wolves," said the One Female, "will cross the mountains with you, hunting for you and breaking trail through the snow so that you may travel with speed and safety."

  This last offer, though simpler than the others, made the greatest impression on Firekeeper. For all of her life she had listened to the teaching tales of the Ones. Every spring, every winter, every autumn, every summer there was a new tale to caution against crossing the Iron Mountains and venturing into those dangerous lands.

  That all her home pack—her mother and father and brothers and sisters—would risk that crossing to assure her speedy journey made Firekeeper realize how seriously the wolves viewed this matter of enchanted objects.

  It had been on her tongue to ask what gain was there to be had for her if she did this dangerous thing. Now she realized how human that thought was. Wolves might tear the very meat out of a pack mate's mouth, but they did not deny the weak the bones.

  Here she was thinking not like one of a pack, but like some mad creature who had forgotten that no matter how flush was summer's hunting only the joined strength of the pack carried the wolf through the coldest freeze.

  "I see," Firekeeper replied lightly, "that we have fine winter hunting here. I can do my part in bringing down the game. When do we leave?"

  There was no applause as there might have been in a human council when the champion took up the gauntlet, but the stillness that held for a long moment was as resounding.

  Then the raven angled his head to look at the sun.

  "We have spent the best part of the sunlight in chatter," he said, "and the elks travel best by day."

  "Still," the elk snorted, "we should travel while there is light. I say we should not wait."

  In reply, Firekeeper rose and the One Female and Blind Seer rose with her. The peregrine Elation took to the air, calling back:

  "I tell your pack that you come, ground runners!"

  "And, too, you might find a meal waiting at this day's end trail," the puma purred, vanishing with a flick of his tail.

  The gull surged into the air with a heavy, awkward beating of his wings, heading east—presumably to brief the watchers as to the result of this meeting. Firekeeper hoped that Lake Rime had surrendered several sleepy fish to his belly.

  Her own was feeling a bit empty, for she had dined early and the morning had been long; she was not ungrateful when the bear lumbered over and thrust a sticky and somewhat dirty chunk of honeycomb at her.

  She thanked the bear and turned to the elk, who was just finishing a slightly heated discussion about best routes with the One Female and a jay.

  "If you go near that rock," she said to the herbivore, who looked quite enormous up close, "I think I can get onto your back with the least trouble for both of us."

  The elk acceded, though something about the way he shuddered his skin made Firekeeper think that he was not nearly as relaxed about the idea of carrying her—or traveling in the company of wolves—as he had pretended.

  At first, they walked, each learning how to balance against the other. Firekeeper found that she must grip hard with her knees and wished for something to hold on to. The elk's antlers were well out of reach as he leaned forward into the motion of his walk. She had a premonition that she would ache later and hoped that her body wouldn't fail her.

  A broad game trail led from Lake Rime into the forested mountains, and for that day they kept to it. Since there had been no heavy snow for some time, the elk found an easy road. He broke into a gait similar to a canter, an easy lope that ate the miles as did a wolf's trot. Blind Seer and the One Female kept pace easily and Firekeeper found herself wondering if perhaps she could have done as well running on her own two feet.

  She banished that thought the next day. They'd made camp at dusk, the elk finding good browsing and the wolves dining on a young deer they found draped over a tree branch and reeking of puma.

  At dawn they set put again, and when the first elk grew tired another buck of similar magnificence met them to accept the human burden. Firekeeper would have been more than willing to rest at this juncture—indeed, traveling on her own she must have done so, for the cold ground, partly frozen in places, would have punished her bare feet to aching soreness.

  The wolves kept the pace set by the elk, jogging steadily along, but then each of them were in fine shape. The One Female was the best her pack had to offer—as she must be to hold her place. Blind Seer was toned from his journey west with Firekeeper and still possessed ample ready fat from the easy seasons among the humans.

  As had happened so many times in her life, Firekeeper—who had grown confident of her strength and woodcraft while among the humans—had to reassess her abilities in light of those born to the Beasts with whom she lived. As always, she found herself pathetically weak in comparison.

  Over and over again, as the journey stretched interminably on and she gripped the elk's flanks with aching legs, she reminded herself: They need you. Remember—they need you.

  That thought was small enough comfort.

  Chapter XV

  Elise felt like a perfect beast for how she had avoided Doc at the Kestrel ball, but her conversation with Lady Aurella was too fresh in her mind for her to encourage him, even to the extent of accepting a dance.

  The following day brought the Redbriar/Shield fete. The intricate unwritten rules of precedence had decreed that it must be scheduled later than those events held by the Great Houses—that is, if the family hoped for any guests to be available to attend. Yet, the very fact that King Allister and his family delayed their departure for Silver Whale Cove to attend gave the gathering a social importance beyond what it would usually command.

  The cynics said that this was simply because King Allister wished Ruby and Opal to travel in company with his own party and that they could hardly be expected to depart before their own family's entertainment.

  The less—or perhaps more—cynical said that this delay was King Allister's way of acknowledging his daughter-in-law's birth family and that acknowledgment conferred a rise in status to a house that was—factually assessed—neither a Great House nor a lesser.

  Rumor was rife that Crown Princess Sapphire was agitating King Tedric to make her brother Jet a baron and confer title of "lady" upon her younger sisters.

  Elise had her doubts about this last. She knew too well the rivalry between Sapphire and Jet—a rivalry that had come to a head with Sapphire's appointment as King Tedric's heir apparent.

  That Lady Melina might be agitating the king, her uncle, or her birth daughter the crown princess to grant these titles, Elise could well believe. Thus she was rather surprised, upon her arrival at the fete with her parents, to find Lady Melina effacing herself in favor of her handsome son.

  It was Jet who stood at the door greeting his guests as they arrived, not—as any who knew her would have expected—Lady Melina. Nor was Lady Melina readily evident in any of the more public rooms.

  Jet reported—claiming Elise for a dance to do so—that his mother's spirit was quite broken by recent events.

  "My father's death," the dark-haired young gentleman said, looking sorrowful, "was a greater blow to her than anyone imagined. Mother says the absence of his presence is like having a wall of the house blown away in a sudden storm."

  Elise, who knew that Lady Melina had barely spoken to her husband and had frequently refused him her bed—this last being common gossip in the war camp last autumn—took this piteous description with a grain of salt. Certainly Lady Melina wanted everyone to believe her in deep mourning. T
he question was why?

  If Lady Melina's behavior was nearly impossible, finding an opportunity to speak with Citrine was easier than Elise had dared hope. The eight-year-old could hardly compete for attention or dance partners with her older sisters and was almost pathetically glad to have Elise visit with her.

  "I wanted so much," Citrine confided in Elise as they took seats at a little table off the dance floor, shielded from notice but where they could watch the dancers, "to go to Bright Bay with my sisters, but Mother said I was too young."

  "Maybe your mother needs your presence to comfort her in her loss," Elise said, curious if Citrine would agree with what Jet had said.

  Citrine shook her head angrily, her round eyes flooding with indignant tears.

  "Mother doesn't care!"

  The little girl almost stammered in her anger and frustration. Then she trembled and her fingers drifted unconsciously to the cognac-dark facets of the citrine imbedded in the band encircling her brow.

  "Not about Father, at least," she said more softly. "I heard her say to Nanny—I was under the bed looking for my doll—that she was glad to have him gone."

  "Glad?" Elise blurted, horrified that an eight-year-old should overhear such things.

  "She used some other word." Citrine waved this minor point aside with a gesture of one plump hand. "But from her voice I could tell she was glad. They'd quarreled, you know, about Sapphire."

  "I'm not surprised," Elise said. "After Sapphire lost her gemstone headpiece?"

  "Yeah."

  Elise was tempted to press for more detail, but realized that she would only be pumping the child for old gossip.

  "So, why do you think your mother doesn't want you near for comfort?" Elise asked, feeling unpleasantly filthy as she grubbed in what was clearly a fresh wound. "Sometimes we don't give our parents enough credit for being weak."

  If Elise hadn't been Citrine's self-appointed favorite cousin, the little girl might have merely snorted and refused to answer. Even so, the look of scorn Citrine turned on the older girl was withering.

  "If Mother needs me, then why is she sending me to some people in the east—people I don't even know?"

  "East?" Elise said, puzzled. "Winter at the seaside?"

  "Just about," Citrine said sulkily. "And Mother won't be there and I won't know anyone."

  Elise didn't like herself an iota more for continuing to cause her little cousin pain—all the more so because if Citrine hadn't been fond of her Elise doubted that she would have talked even this much. Plump she might be, a mere eight-year-old she might be, but Citrine shared a certain dignity with her eldest sister, Sapphire, a dignity that Ruby and Opal both lacked.

  Therefore Elise didn't belittle Citrine by asking her if she was sure of her facts. Nor did she offer her platitudes. Instead she asked, with adult directness:

  "Do you know why she's sending you there?"

  Citrine shook her head, and for the first time Elise realized that an undefined dread underlay the child's defiance.

  "No," Citrine whispered. "I don't. Ever since Sapphire stopped wearing her circlet, Mother hasn't liked to let us too far away. Then all of a sudden, the day of the wedding when I was asking again if I could go to Bright Bay with Ruby and Opal, she looked at me—right at me—and told me that no I couldn't, to stop whining like a baby, and that I was going somewhere else for the winter where I could do her more good."

  "That's what she said?" Elise asked. "Where you could do her more good?"

  "That's it," Citrine said. "And I am. You don't cross Mother, not when she gets that look."

  Her voice, which had risen slightly as she narrated the events of this peculiar exile, now dropped again.

  "You were lucky, you know, not to marry Jet." Citrine's eyes teared up suddenly. "But I'm sorry you're not going to be my sister after all."

  That pitiful confession broke Elise completely. Forgetful of her gown, forgetful of not wanting to attract attention to this little conference, she gathered Citrine into her lap and hugged her.

  "You can still be my sister," she whispered fiercely in the little girl's ear, "maybe not by law, but in my heart. I never had a sister, but I'd be glad to have you."

  For some reason, this set them both crying. Elise felt the rounded hardness of the gemstone fastened to Citrine's brow pressing against her breast and resolved to someday free Citrine—just as Sapphire had been freed—from her mother's domination.

  Citrine's sudden storm of tears vanished as quickly as it had arisen and her round face was sunny.

  "Thanks, Elise," she said. "I'm sorry I was such a baby. I've been so scared and nobody wants to talk to me."

  "That's what big sisters are for," Elise assured her. "Talking to."

  "Not mine," Citrine said with characteristic bluntness. "At least not the other ones. I'm just the baby nuisance to them."

  Unwilling to stir up another storm, Elise settled for hugging her.

  "When do you leave for the seaside?"

  "Tomorrow or the day after," Citrine replied. "I've only stayed this long because Mother thought I should be seen at the party."

  Once again, the little girl was clearly echoing her mother's words, but without Elise's broader knowledge of the intrigue in which Lady Melina might be involved they did not trouble her. To Elise, however, that "should be seen" had a distinctly ominous ring. She put her worries from her with an effort.

  "Well, then," Elise said brightly, "you should indeed be seen. Come with me and we'll wash that smudge off your nose and then we'll see if we can't find a pair of gallant souls who want to dance."

  Citrine glowed and put her fingers confidently in Elise's hand. As they went on their quest for partners, Elise found herself wishing that she had a brother for Citrine to marry. Then she chuckled to herself:

  There you go, arranging other people's lives in the same fashion you yourself have been resisting. Maybe Citrine wouldn't want to marry your brother—if you had one—or maybe he wouldn't want to marry her!

  Still, though she laughed the thought away, Elise felt vaguely awkward, understanding for the first time from her heart—rather than merely from lessons in etiquette and procedure—how and why her parents might want to arrange their only daughter's life.

  It was not comfortable to realize that their interests might be directed toward insuring Elise's own happiness, rather than merely working toward their own gain. And this realization made it even harder for Elise to resist their desires.

  With Citrine trying hard to walk in a dignified fashion beside her—but nonetheless bouncing just a bit—Elise made her way to where two young scions of Bright Bay's nobility stood sipping punch and studying the dancers.

  "I understand," Elise said, smiling, "that the next dance is Clover in Springtime. My cousin and I thought you might not know it and would enjoy showing you the steps."

  Both of the young men—boys really would be a fairer term—colored while still managing to look quite pleased.

  "We'd be honored," said the elder of the two—a youth of perhaps fifteen. "We've seen it danced at a few other events here in Eagle's Nest, but it isn't done in Bright Bay."

  "Though," his friend said with an almost scholarly thoughtfulness, surprising in one who couldn't be more than thirteen, "it does resemble the dance we call Dolphin Pod—at least in some steps and the general cadence of the music."

  Conversation came easily as—after introducing themselves—Elise and Citrine showed the young men what they would need to know to comport themselves with sufficient skill. When the current dance ended and the two couples proceeded out onto the floor, Elise glimpsed an expression of proud satisfaction on her father's face before Baron Archer returned to his conversation with another of the foreign guests.

  Not all our victories are won on the battlefield, Elise thought as the music began and she subtly steered her partner through the first steps. The most important ones may be won in places like this.

  Elise's satisfaction at this thought, howe
ver, was muted by a glimpse of Lady Melina entering the room, attended by a small entourage of men—Baron Endbrook of the Isles among them. Elise concealed a shiver, thinking that Lady Melina was far more skilled than she at manipulating the social battlefield and wondering what victories the older woman might have already achieved.

  Baron Endbrook had stopped feeling in the least bit nervous. Arranging for horses, driver, and wagon had been so much like tasks he had performed dozens of times before in the course of his varied shipping ventures that the entire realm of international intrigue was beginning to seem simply like another business deal.

  Indeed, why shouldn't international politics be conducted so? Wasn't the principle much the same? Queen Valora, Lady Melina, the New Kelvinese—even himself—each wanted something, each had something to trade. In the end, with a bit of give-and-take, a touch of compromise, everyone should be more or less satisfied.

  Even the element of secrecy wasn't unfamiliar. Too many good trades could be queered if the information got out too soon. Most of the deals that had made Waln's fortune had been conducted in secret.

  The day following the Redbriar/Shield fete, Baron Endbrook joined Duke Marek and his diplomatic entourage in departing for Port Haven. Although he had not said he was leaving the mainland, it was to Baron Endbrook's taste that most think he was gone. In this way he would avoid the complications of continued social and business invitations. He'd been surprised at how eager Hawk Haven's monied elements had been to talk the possibilities of seaborne trade. They might have been from Waterland rather than genteel, nearly landlocked Hawk Haven.

  There was a good, straight road between Hawk Haven's one port and her capital city. After the Isles diplomatic party had ridden a few hours out from the capital, Waln changed to a fresh horse and picked up his pace. He had many reasons to get to the port before the others, and his companions—knowing the queen's favor was upon the baron—asked no questions.