Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart

by Jane Lindskold

  "The bears and raccoons and wild pigs helped drive us from even these poor meals—for less restricted in what they could eat they were stronger than we—and they stood us off when we would have sacrificed eyes and ears to the beaks of the corvid kin in return for a mouthful of rotting meat.

  "And when the starving was nearly complete, when the ribs of every wolf stood out like tree branches in winter, when the pumas lacked the strength to groom even the paws they rested their heavy heads upon, when the foxes considered their own fleas fine dining, then an embassy came to the eaters of meat, an embassy of those we had in our arrogance taken to be our rightful prey.

  "A fat robin sat upon a tree branch and whistled, 'What use a songbird?' A wolf replied, 'We have ceased to hunt the Royal Beasts. We are humbled to death. What do you want?'

  " 'A promise,' said the robin, 'that you will never do this again, that you will teach your children of your folly.'

  "The wolf, speaking for all the hunters, said, 'We gladly give this promise. From this day forth, no Royal Beast will be preferred game, but will only be hunted as before—when made vulnerable by the course of life.'

  "The robin bobbed acceptance, but was not yet content. 'And we demand an apology from all of you for thinking that simply because you could slay our enemies you had earned the right to view any living thing as your enemy. We want an apology for the wasted lives—both kin and Cousin—that were spent in your pride.'

  "Again the wolf agreed, adding, 'We have learned that it is pure madness to kill without eating. How often have we longed for those Cousin-kind we slew without eating. We beg forgiveness and ask to be allowed to eat once more. If you wish, we shall forgo Royal-kind completely and dine only on Cousins.'

  "The robin sang a merry note. 'What use a hunter? We, too, are hunters—though you mocked our insect prey as puppy game until you were starving. Even those who eat the growing things are hunters, for without them the trees would be choked by their own saplings and the grass by its older growth. Hunt as before, hunt warily and well—and always eat what you kill.' "

  Here the One Female stopped her story and glanced at the elk. Firekeeper could tell from the set of the wolf's ears that she was uncomfortable and her tones when she addressed the elk held traces of a puppy whine.

  "Great elk," the One Female said, "this next part of the tale has always troubled me for it seems more a hunter's fantasy than any possible reality."

  "Tell the story," commanded the elk, "as you learned it when you rose to strength."

  Even with this assurance, the One Female seemed unhappy as she continued:

  "As my first mate told me the tale when I had beaten all comers and become the One, at this point the robin flew down from the tree and offered her fat breast to the fox. A deer and an elk leapt from a high place, breaking their own necks and backs, and thus there was food for the wolves and pumas. Even the timid rabbits and foolish ground birds bent head and necks to the hunters' fangs. In this way the hunters were given strength to hunt again and returned to the chase—though never again did they turn exclusively to Royal-kind as their prey."

  Firekeeper gasped at this incredible conclusion to the tale. She understood why the One Female believed it fancy, but the elk running beneath her did not gainsay the account.

  "So it is told among my people," the elk said, "with slight variation of detail and emphasis. For we are told that the robin's lesson—the lesson of the songbirds—was for all Royal-kind. Though our lives are precious to us, still the tradition of sacrifice is in our blood. When the hunters come, we put our young in the center of the herd and defend them. When all must run, the weakest know that their falling back preserves the herd. This tradition is not so different than that of the hunters."

  The elk snorted and bounded over a place half-ice, half-mud, before continuing.

  "For the lesson of the songbirds is for us as well. If our numbers grow too great, we will become as the insects that stripped the land of all growing things. Every year when the tale is related some little calf asks why Royal-kind gave of itself rather than herding forth some Cousins to die instead—if indeed…"

  Here the elk chuckled. "If indeed that calf thinks the hunters should have been preserved at all. And we tell the calves that had we let the hunters continue to starve—or had preserved them at the cost of Cousin-kind—then we would have shown that we had not learned the lesson so dearly taught."

  The One Female replied slowly, "I almost understand."

  "You understand," the elk said, "else Little Two-legs here astride me would have died long ago. Surely some of your own went hungry to feed her. It is not so great a step from that sacrifice to the other."

  But the she-wolf was not certain and the elk read this in the angle of her tail and the tilt of her ears.

  "Think this then, silver wolf. The story begins with the hunting beasts protecting our lands from those who would take them from us. Many are said to have died in those battles and you have no trouble accepting the truth of that part of the story. How does that dying differ from the other?"

  Blind Seer protested, "In a fight the blood is hot!"

  "I tell you, young wolf," the elk replied, "the blood of those who gave their lives to feed the hunters was hot as well, for fear makes the heart pump, even as does fury."

  They were all silent, thinking about this for a time. Then the One Female said to Blind Seer:

  "Now you and Little Two-legs know the story of the songbirds. May you be well served for your curiosity."

  Firekeeper puzzled over this; then at last she asked:

  "But, Mother, what happened to the songbirds? According to this tale, they lived and even prospered, yet I have never seen a Royal robin or other singer. Royal rabbits and such are simply joking excuses for failed hunting. Many times have I heard a pack mate swear, 'That one must have been Royal, else it could not have escaped me.' "

  The One Female sighed, "We live in borderlands, upon the fringes of which those battles so long ago were fought. No one sees the smaller beasts here, but it is said that they can still be found in the deeper lands, farther from the ocean, nearer to the great wide river."

  "My people," the elk added unexpectedly, "say that the songbirds left this land for it had been made sorrowful by memory of the carnage. Hying far away, they found new nesting lands where they never again had to fear a breaking of the truce. In the loneliest part of winter, our young bulls bellow long, low songs describing islands full of singing birds whose every note is ripe with wisdom."

  "Who knows which is the truth?" the One Female said.

  "Maybe I will learn the truth someday," Firekeeper said, "for it is in my thoughts that I shall travel far before I dig a den for myself."

  "Come and tell us tales of your journeying," the elk requested a trace wistfully.

  "We shall."

  And that promise came from Blind Seer.

  Chapter XVI

  King Allister and his party began their return journey to Silver Whale Cove on the fourteenth day of Boar Moon. Without Sapphire and Shad dispensing cheer among their fellow travelers, the group seemed much smaller, although in fact it was larger by the addition of four young ladies and their various attendants.

  The young ladies were Deste and Nydia Trueheart, the daughters of Lady Zorana Archer and Lord Aksel Trueheart, and Ruby and Opal Shield, daughters of Lady Melina Shield and the late Lord Rolfston Redbriar. In point of fact and order, only the latter two had been specifically invited, but when Lady Zorana—a forceful woman not above trading on her close kinship to King Tedric to get what she wanted—chose to assume that her daughters were included in the invitation, King Allister had accepted them without protest.

  Pearl's reminder of the son Zorana had so recently lost certainly played a part in softening the king's heart. He hoped that Pearl wouldn't regret her sympathy, for managing the young ladies would fall much into her sphere.

  Allister had narrowly escaped taking along a handful of other young people—scio
ns of various Great Houses—but had been saved from this influx by a rumor which suggested that the girls were not so much guests as hostages for the safety and good treatment of Prince Shad in his new home.

  This was ridiculous, but as the rumor served Allister, he didn't particularly mind. In fact, the giggles and gossip coming from the carriages had been a nice balance to the emptiness he felt when they took their departure, leaving Shad behind in Eagle's Nest.

  The odd thing was that this was hardly the first time that Shad had been away from his family. Indeed, over the past several years Shad had served in Bright Bay's navy and, had the ancestors not chosen to make Allister king, Shad would have spent the greater part of the next several years—if not decades—at sea, coming home at last to whatever estate was his inheritance.

  But this time, Allister thought, Shad is going from us not merely into unfamiliar waters, but into a way of life none of us can imagine. Now he must learn to reign—not simply to command—and he must learn to be a married man, not simply a promising youth. I wonder if I'm feeling the first touch of old age's frost.

  Allister laughed at the idea. In truth, he had rarely felt more alive or more anticipation for what the future would bring. The trip to Hawk Haven had solidified his relations with some of those members of his court about whom he had felt uncertain. In an unfamiliar place, surrounded by people for whom strange customs and accents were familiar, the guests from Bright Bay had formed a tenuous bond that their king looked forward to twisting into a stronger rope.

  Allister was not so naive as to think that the trip had been enough to win over those who were inclined to be his enemies—not in the least—but he was certain that he had progressed in forming alliances with those whose feelings were more neutral.

  Reports from the two regents he had left governing in his stead at the capital were promising. Grand Duchess Seastar was taking advantage of his absence to promote her sons, but not to the point of encouraging treason. Mostly she seemed interested in having Culver made an admiral and Dillon being promoted to some important but not too onerous position at court.

  Earle Oyster, who had taken charge over investigating the assassination attempt in the absence of both the king and Whyte Steel, reported (in cipher!) that she had run into nothing but dead ends. She apologized to her brother-in-law for her failure and begged his permission to continue. As of yet, Opulence Rosen was not agitating to return home to Waterland and she still hoped to learn something from him or his correspondence.

  Let her keep trying, Allister thought. There is nothing to be lost by appearing firm, but I suspect that the Opulence knows no more than anyone else and that no one will be foolish enough to write anything incriminating.

  Really, given that no one irreplaceable had been killed and that Shad and Sapphire had become heroes in the eyes of the public, Allister could almost be grateful to whoever had attempted the assassination. It didn't hurt to have one's heirs popular with those who would be ruled by them. Not only did their popularity solidify the future, but it strengthened the present reign as well—at least until the heirs apparent grew ambitious for the throne. Shad and Sapphire would have plenty to keep them busy, so that they should not be in a hurry for more responsibility.

  King Allister chuckled softly to himself, thinking that had not there been so much blood and the injuries to both Shad and Sapphire and the slain guards, his political adversaries might have thought the entire thing a put-up job on the part of the king. All the tales being told and ballads being sung would nicely keep both Shad and Sapphire vivid in the public imagination, even when their duties carried them off into Hawk Haven.

  Some of the king's cheery mood left him as he thought of the guards who had died, those men in their shining dress armor, so proud to have been chosen to attend upon the royal family. Death in the line of duty had been common enough of late—King Allister's War had seen to that—but even so the king should invent some posthumous award to recognize this particular sacrifice on this unusual battlefield.

  Such an award would provide incentive to those guards who—as they had every day since the assassination attempt—continued to put themselves between their king and possible disaster. Since Allister had refused to be locked in a carriage, feeling that this would simply mean that their undeclared enemy had won a smaller victory, the guards had a difficult task indeed. Still, a king who hid in fear soon became no king at all.

  Allister nudged Hot Toddy with his heels and the sorrel trotted up toward the middle of the line, where Queen Pearl rode in a carriage with her ladies. On the way, he passed Nydia Trueheart—now her family's heir apparent—and Prince Tavis riding side by side, engrossed in a competition to discover who could recite from memory more lines out of the canon of some New Kelvinese poet.

  The rhythmic syllables—never mind that they were in a language Allister didn't understand—provided a completely nonmartial counterpoint to the thudding of horse hooves on the dirt road and jingling of harness leathers.

  Life seemed very pleasant indeed. Even the weather changing to rain the next day, transforming the roads to mud couldn't alter Allister's sense of deep contentment. The weddings were over, the coronation concluded. Now he could get onto challenges he understood without ceremony to fetter his energy.

  Swinging down from the saddle, Allister hummed softly as he helped shove yet another wagon out of a patch of sticky mud. Discovering Tavis behind him, placing his own shoulder against the wagon's side while still reciting poetry to a laughing Nydia, only added to the music in the king's heart.

  On the day following King Allister's departure, in those dusky moments that are neither evening nor yet night, that time when stars can be seen but the sky itself is bluish rather than black, a curious thing might have been glimpsed in the semi-wild gardens back of Eagle's Nest Castle.

  A figure, slim and graceful, so soundless that it might have been taken for a shadow had there been anything present to cast such a shadow, mounted the wall that separated the wilder gardens from the exquisitely tended ones within.

  In the days when Eagle's Nest had been merely the name for a castle, rather than that of the town sprawled about the castle's feet, the dwellers in the castle had claimed for themselves not only the gardens within the walls, but the space surrounding those walls.

  As the castle itself stood on a high bluff overlooking the Flin River, and as the owners of the castle were both martial and magical in nature, no one felt inclined to protest. Even years later, when the castle had been captured by she who would become known as Queen Zorana the Great, the claim on the surrounding lands had been maintained.

  In more recent years, indeed, since the reign of King Tedric (long though that had been), the city had grown up close to the eastern walls of the castle. A wide, open field was still maintained there, but it was used often as a gathering place when the king addressed his people or as an arena for public spectacles such as circuses, tilting matches, and important executions.

  The area west of the castle, however—the high ground along the bluff—had remained in the keeping of the castle. No herds or flocks were grazed there, excepting a few dairy cows and goats kept for the convenience of the castle's occupants. No crops were grown there—even the castle's kitchen gardens were within the walls.

  Sometimes small parties hunted in this wilder zone—mostly with hawks, for larger game found its way onto the bluff only rarely now that the surrounding regions were so well farmed and tended. Mostly it was left to itself but for occasional inspections by intelligent and sharp-eyed soldiers who came to cut back trees that might be felled to bridge the ravines that separated the bluff from the lower lands.

  Yet it was from this wild garden that the shadowy figure emerged. Nor did the stone wall—quite high and topped with iron spikes—give it pause. It slipped between the spikes and dropped lightly to the ground. Moments later, had any been listening, they would have heard the thunk of a bolt being shot back, a faint squeak as the hinges of a little-used gate
swung open.

  Now a second shadow, more massy than the first but lower to the ground, joined the first. After it had passed in, the gate was closed and, if ears could be believed, the bolt slid home.

  The shadows were lost in the gathering darkness.

  Firekeeper had been puzzled about where to go when she returned to Eagle's Nest—for Eagle's Nest was where she hoped to find friends to help her in the duty imposed on her by the Royal Beasts.

  Wolf-like, she wanted the support of a pack, but that was not her only reason for coming here first rather than hurrying down to the warehouse in Port Haven where the enchanted objects might still be found. Firekeeper knew too well her weakness regarding human ways and means. If she was to be better than a raccoon or fox at this theft, she needed human knowledge.

  Although she had lived in Eagle's Nest for some time, Firekeeper knew little of the city. At King Tedric's request, she had resided at the castle and had been glad enough for the invitation to do so. The city contained more humans than her mind had been prepared to accept. In the castle's grounds, amid its smaller population, she could adjust to the idea that she was not the only human on the earth.

  So to the castle she had returned, making her way with ease across ravines that would have barred armies—partly because no one sought to actively prevent her, partly because she could find footholds and handholds where most could not.

  Blind Seer had experienced some difficulty in the climb, but Firekeeper had anticipated this. A farmhouse had provided a coil of light but strong rope. Now understanding something of human customs of payment, Firekeeper had left a trio of freshly killed rabbits in its stead. This rope, knotted into a rough harness, had provided the means for hauling the wolf across the deepest divides.

  But Blind Seer, too, had learned something in his journeys. Climbing up the Barren River Canyon had given him perfect skill in judging just how far he might jump, just how high he could leap. Thus, they only needed to resort to the harness a few times.