by Forthright
Loor found himself nodding. “Better to be happy with two than alone in the crowd.”
“Yes. Just like that.” Moon leaned up and kissed Loor’s chin. “Tell me a story?”
“All the best storytellers will be at the Song Circle.”
“A little longer?” wheedled the boy.
He gave in, telling the story of two brothers. One embraced the life of a dex, becoming the favorite of every Kith and respected by the Kindred. The other was his grumpy younger twin, whose only weapon was a needle and whose only friend was a Kith-kin.
“You sew?” asked Moon.
“Nothing so humble,” drawled Loor. “I embroider.”
“Do males embroider?”
Only the truth, and only a little. “There are so many cubs in my father’s den, I’m quite sure my mother mistook me for one of her daughters. What can I say? I have a knack.”
Moon giggled. He gently traced the fanciful stitching on Loor’s festival tunic—white upon midnight blue. “Did you make this?”
“I did. Am I not grand in my finery?”
Furry fingers reached and rested upon Loor’s cheek, and Moon’s voice came into his mind. “Do they tease you?”
“Worse. They never noticed.”
Moon’s voice took a fragile note. “They tease me.”
“Then you must be strong, like your mam and your da and your sire. Trust their voices first. And mine.” Loor leaned into his touch. “You have a place and a purpose. Sing your song with all your might.”
The boy sniffled and sighed. “Glad I listened, even though I had to walk so far.”
“Hmm? What do you mean?”
“Almost didn’t come,” Moon mumbled sheepishly.
Loor’s bafflement doubled. Had someone sent the poor boy into the woods on a fool’s errand? He had half a mind to track down the prankster. “Who sent you here?”
“A star came down and showed the way.”
What an imagination. “You are the one who should be telling stories.”
Moon’s smile had a dreamy quality. “Loor?”
“Hmm?”
“Am I really your only friend?”
“Without you and Marnoo, I’d be wretchedly alone.” Loor kissed his forehead. “I’m glad our paths crossed, Moon-kin. You are my friend for life.”
Star
Loor carried the sleeping cubs back into livelier territory. An elder elk’s voice rose and fell, adding drama to the old sagas, and a colony of songbirds warmed their voices with hot brews and honeyed ciders. Bears paced through the complex patterns of a walking dance, weaving their way around a newly bonded pair.
He didn’t catch sight of any Highwinds, but then he was watching for the lighter browns and pure white pelts for which the Ambervelte pack was known. Passing a cluster of owls and gray squirrels, he caught a peevish thread about the Woodacre clan, who’d gone from bold to brazen after forming an alliance with wolves.
The cheek.
Loor saw no reason for the fuss, except perhaps jealousy. The cozy clans liked protectors, and there were none better than wolves. But the packs usually kept to themselves—unfettered and free.
Good for the Woodacres.
Cooperatives were becoming increasingly common, out of fear for rogues and for human raiding parties. Trackers now reported annually to the pack leaders about these newcomers—colonists, trappers, explorers. They felled trees and tilled fields far to the east. Most Amaranthine saw no cause for concern; humans were slow-moving and short-lived. So far, the consensus at each Song Circle remained the same—watch and see.
Amaranthine lived wherever their counterparts flourished, watching over the animals, akin yet apart. If territories and migration patterns changed to accommodate humanity, then their people would change with them.
Humans were far from this place. The Song Circle, at least, was safe.
Loor had no trouble finding the cubs’ temporary den. A lean wolf clansman with the same copper eyes as Marnoo hurried his way, flicking through apologies and gratitude before gasping out a greeting. “He was only just missed. We were about to search.”
“Da,” murmured Moon, his tail giving a sleepy twitch. “I made a friend.”
The Ambervelte male met Loor’s gaze as he gathered the boy to his heart. “Is that so?”
“Moon-kin is a tribute to your den, and Marnoo is fortunate to have such a devoted protector.”
Their da leaned close and pressed his cheek to Loor’s, murmuring thanks and blessings. And as he carried the cubs homeward, Loor could hear the gentleness in his tone. “Why did you leave the tent?”
“A star came down,” said Moon.
“You saw a falling star?”
“He didn’t fall. He flew.”
Loor shook his head and turned away, moving automatically toward the Highwind camp. Moon and Marnoo had needed him, and perhaps he’d needed them, too. If not for the cubs, he probably would have run and kept running, an aimless rogue, ill-prepared for life without a pack.
Like Moon, he’d left because he didn’t want to be alone. What good could come of that?
“Much good.”
Loor stopped and turned, trying to pinpoint the speaker. He didn’t recognize the voice, nor were there any wolf Kith close by. “Who spoke, please?”
His question was ignored, but the voice returned, clarion-clear. “I am waiting.”
Baffled, Loor asked, “Where?”
“Come, prepare for your journey.”
Loor scented the air but found nothing unusual. Even so, he rushed toward the small tent he shared with Bel. The moment it came into view, he knew something was wrong. Light poured from every gap and seam as if the interior was aflame.
He reached for the flap with a trembling hand.
“Gather your things.”
Gritting his teeth, Loor stepped inside, only to be blinded by the figure awaiting him. Squinting through his lashes, he tried to understand what he was seeing. Could this be the star Moon claimed to have seen?
“Who …?”
“I am Soriel. I stand in the presence of heaven’s throne, and I speak for the One who made all things.”
Not a star then. Loor sank to his knees as suspicion became certainty—angel.
Soriel blazed across his senses—too bright, too clean, too much. Like the hair-raising tales of humans with fury in their souls, this creature put Loor in fear of his life. He was suddenly attuned to his shortcomings, ashamed of his selfishness, aware of his own stench. Groveling wasn’t enough. He wanted to bury himself like spoor. Face covered, tail tucked, he groaned.
Then hands were at his shoulders. “Lift your head, Loor-ket Highwind.”
When he obeyed, the dazzle was gone, and he was kneeling face-to-face with an angel upon the furs that carpeted the tent. Wings rustled. Skin flashed. Eyes blazed. But Soriel’s posture promised peace as he presented his palms.
Loor met them, wanting to see if he was real. “You know my name.”
Soriel smiled. “And now you know mine. Is this not common ground?”
He could barely breathe, let alone argue, so Loor only shook his head.
“You accepted Moon-kin’s personhood.” That shining countenance leaned closer. “You did not hesitate to call him friend.”
This was so confusing. Loor’s voice caught and tripped over itself. “I don’t understand.”
The angel stood, hauling Loor up so that his feet no longer touched the ground. He dangled there, as limp as his tail, waiting to see what the angel intended. But Soriel simply set him on his feet, then bent to bestow a kiss upon his forehead.
“Fear not, son of the packs. I bring a message.”
He was aghast. The Maker had a message for him?
Soriel studied his face and smiled. “Slave of the moon, lift your gaze to a place between. Shed your wildness to walk as men do, and in their midst, find a haven, forge a bond, found a future.”
Loor’s skin prickled, and a shiver ran down his spine. “How d
o I do all that?”
“Go to the place I will show you. Follow my star. It will go before you.” Soriel sketched a scant tenth of the night’s turning. “Gather what you will carry and walk away. Do not run or leap or fly. Walk.”
Finally, Loor dared to ask, “Why?”
“Because every step demands your trust, confirms your choice, requires your patience. That is your pace.” Soriel lifted shining wings and pointed to the east. “There is your path.”
Path
Before Loor had run across the cubs, he’d already committed to a course, no matter the consequences. He’d run away. He’d live alone. Unwanted, unneeded, he’d obeyed the impulse to disappear, sure that no one would miss him, even while hoping his brother would suffer a little for his sake.
A petty vengeance.
A pitiful reason.
Yet Loor would have run and kept running, an aimless rogue harboring bitterness. Feeling betrayed, he’d been ready to betray. To go without a word. To cut the only one who’d ever cared. But Moon and Marnoo had gotten in the way, forced him to pause, and given him time to rethink his recklessness. With cubs to carry, it was easier to admit that pack was precious.
In returning them to the Song Circle, Loor had remembered what it meant to hear the old stories, to have a voice in the song, to belong.
They had changed his course, and he’d known he would stay.
Only to be sent away. And without a word to the brother who might believe the worst and blame himself.
Bereft of Kith or Kindred. Estranged to the moon to which all wolves sang. Stripped of ties and—he’d been stricken to discover—his tail. Loor did wish that this mark of the Maker’s favor hadn’t cost him his pride as a wolf.
Loor rummaged in the small chest he shared with his brother, lifting aside embroidered sashes, uncovering boyhood treasures. His sewing kit and hunting knife were already in the carry-sack at his feet, but Loor wanted desperately to reassure his twin.
Bel’s carving tools were no help, nor his brother’s stash of wood, stone, and bone. Loor set them aside, but more items found their way into his pack—a medicinal pouch of herbs and ointments, three bowstrings, and an ember cache. He hesitated for a moment over a half-forgotten length of loomed cloth that had been one of his earliest assignments. It was clumsily made, but it was his, and it might prove useful.
Near the bottom, he found matching keepsake cords from his and Bel’s whelping feast. They were a Highwind tradition, knotted with pledges of protection from both parents and packmates. Loor broke the bands to steal the anchoring bead from each. With no time to braid anything new, he pulled the cord from his topknot. Auburn hair hung loose around his shoulders, framing his face, hiding his expression as he threaded the twin stones, holding them in place with knots of unity, loyalty, and journeying.
“Please understand,” he whispered.
Pressing his lips to the refashioned cord, he set it atop Beloor’s neat stack of sleeping furs and fussed with its arrangement for the scant minute that remained between obedience and rebellion. Then he ducked under the drape that blanketed the entrance to the only home he’d known for more than a century and strode into an uncertain future.
Loor pulled the hood of his travel cloak up around his ears and skirted the Song Circle. To avoid notice, he’d hidden his pack beneath its fur-lined folds, but he attracted neither interest nor concern as he knelt beside a flagging cookfire to tease a few embers into the warded carrier that he knotted to one ankle.
Perhaps Soriel had rendered him invisible.
The alternative left him sad, yet surly.
Even though he wanted to run, run, run from the sting of his own insignificance, he heeded the angel’s command and walked through the pain. Every step a choice.
Along an eastbound trail, he strode past a flock of jugglers, festive in their feathered waistcoats. Past steaming basins of sweet cider and mulled wine. Past a double-ring of dancers, lithe and lovely as they threaded through a naming dance for the new daughter added to their cloister. Past high-stepping maidens in the mossy drape of the Daphollow herd.
His sense of loss was vexing. Could he lose something he’d never possessed?
On and on he walked until the circle’s song was nothing but memory, and the only voices were in his head.
Beloor saying, “Can’t bear to leave me?”
Moon-kin saying, “A star came down and showed the way.”
And Soriel saying, “Walk away.”
Den
Loor marked the new star in the sky and knew it for his guide. The twinkling blaze never moved faster than he could follow, and when his steps lagged to a standstill, the star sank from the heights and settled into a nearby tree like a bird come to roost. Which brought to mind old tales about sky imps and star clans, but Loor couldn’t test his theories without breaking his pace to give chase. All he could do was watch and wonder and walk on.
After the passing of many days, his progress slowed, for the way grew difficult. Trees banished his view of the sky, and he was forced to trudge up and down hills that would have been nothing if only he could take to the sky. Yet here he was, scrabbling over every rock and rise.
He bound his feet and resigned himself to long stretches of uncertainty.
From time to time, the trees thinned, and he glimpsed the distant shine of his star, which drew him onward, correcting his course through the long winter nights.
During brief hours of daylight, Loor hunted or slept. In the foothills of a mountain, he found a deep pool of dark water warmed by buried heat and stopped to bathe and rebind his bruised feet. In the process, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. He stilled, waiting for the ripples to settle and the surface to yield a startling truth.
Loor slowly lifted his hand to touch his forehead.
There, in its very center, gleamed a copper star.
The star stopped and stayed over a human village tucked into that same mountain’s heights. On the third night, without any further sign of moving on, Loor had to concede that this was his destination, even though he couldn’t fathom why.
Soriel didn’t return with further instructions.
His star remained steadfast, confirming his arrival.
And so Loor began to explore the mountain valley and the mismatched pack of humanity that tended flocks and toiled in fields. This was his first encounter with people of this sort, and he kept his distance from their strange voices, labors, and smells.
One season passed into another, and the busyness of the humans left Loor even lonelier than before. They talked and laughed. They formed little packs and cared for young. They tamed animals and used them for meat and for milk and even for companionship. He was most curious about the tame canines that came to heel for hunters and herders alike.
Dogs.
While similar to wolves, their features varied in interesting ways. Some he found quite ugly, but there were beauties in their midst. They had no words, being dumb beasts, but their barks and body language reminded him of home and stoked a craving for the closeness of one’s packmates.
Curiosity carried him closer to their strange dens, only to set off a chorus of warning barks. He admired their protective instincts but chafed at their exclusion. Which is what drove him to take his truest form.
On all fours, he was a little larger than a wolf. Nose to the ground, he savored the scents that were growing more familiar. The trapper and his sled dogs. The shepherd and his herders. The headman and his kennel of hunting dogs.
The latter drew him unerringly to the man’s barn. Loor transformed long enough to let himself inside, then reverted to the form of a ruddy wolf with silver eyes. Only one dog had been closed in for the night, a bitch and her litter. He approached with care, and she seemed to understand that he was something other than a threat.
Instinct worked in his favor.
She recognized him as a protector, and after long weeks alone, he was able to enjoy the scents and sounds of a proper den. Her pups tumble
d around him, and she looked on with tail slowly wagging. Nightly, he returned, and always he found welcome.
And in finding this scrap of peace, he threw himself into his newfound role.
He let himself go, following instinct, abandoning words. This was his den, his territory, so he prowled the headman’s borders, protecting his holdings. But Loor’s peaceful days ended far too soon, for a dog’s life was short.
When the bitch breathed her last, he roved the village, seeking a new den. What he found changed everything.
A farmer with vast herds on the high slopes north of the village had purchased a new bitch—a leggy hound with intelligence in her gaze. He kept her shut away because she was in heat, and Loor liked her looks and the privacy her owner had so thoughtfully provided.
There was a brief outcry when the farmer realized that his best hunting dog was pregnant, but no one in his household knew where to lay blame. Perhaps the pups would give some clue to their father’s identity.
Unconcerned by the circulating speculations, Loor took to patrolling this farmer’s boundaries. He protected the man’s herd, his crops, and even warned off a dray of squirrel Kith. Before the week was out, he’d been spotted by more than one villager, and tales of a red wolf with ghostly eyes began to spread.
Loor watched over the bitch and waited, and this waiting was not the same as waiting on stars. For these were days he knew how to number, and their end would bring a new life into the world. This hound carried his cubs. No, she was no wolf. Her young would be pups. His pups.
Name
The weight of that realization drove Loor into speaking form for the first time in years. He shuddered to think what might happen to pups if they bore any resemblance to the dreaded red wolf. Before their birth, he needed to find a better den for his pack.
Sitting cross-legged in the straw, he waited to see if the expectant mother would recognize him in speaking form. Loor extended a hand, and said, “Forgive me for not offering my pledge until now, dear one. I am with you and will keep you. Can you accept an ill-mannered mate?”