by David Gross
“With what? That great ridiculous beam you call a sword? Rusk can stop you with a word. The only reason he didn’t do it last time was because he was seducing you.”
“Seducing me?” said Tal, grimacing at the word. “He didn’t even buy me dinner.”
“Can you be serious for once and listen to what I’m telling you?”
“We’re quarreling again, aren’t we?” said Chaney. “You two should just rent a room and get it out of your systems.” He pushed back from the table before Tal could land another kick.
“All I’m saying is that you need a plan if you want to be ready for Rusk.” Feena tossed back her tea and slammed the ceramic cup on the table. Tal refilled it.
“Wait a moment,” said Tal. “Rusk hasn’t gone back to his lair, right?”
“Right, as far as we can tell.”
“So where in the Nine Hells has he been hiding all this time?”
“Perhaps somewhere in Selgaunt,” suggested Feena.
“He’s not exactly inconspicuous,” said Chaney. “He’d have to have someplace to hide for those two or three months.”
“Somehow, I don’t see Rusk spending that time at an inn,” said Tal. “He must have friends in the city. What do you think, Feena?”
She thought for a moment before answering. “It’s possible,” she said. “Rusk is older than he looks. Mother said he roamed all over Sembia when he was young.”
“If he was interested in you the whole time,” said Chaney, “then it all started with that hunting trip. Whose idea was that?”
“I don’t remember,” said Tal. “One of the Soargyls, maybe.”
“Wasn’t it Alale who actually invited you?”
“Maybe,” said Tal with a frown. “Dark and empty! I think it was.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” said Feena. “Maybe he has some connection to Rusk.”
“He does,” said Tal. “Or rather, he did. He’s the one Rusk killed in my tallhouse last winter.”
Tal’s appetite vanished as he remembered waking up to find the man’s mutilated body in his own bedroom. At first he feared he’d done the killing himself. Later, Feena assured him that she’d seen Rusk commit the murder in an effort to inflame Tal’s bloodlust. Tal remembered none of it, for he remained completely unconscious of what occurred while he was in wolf form.
“That means Alale can’t have been the one hiding him all this time,” said Chaney. “If he has a friend in the city, it’s someone else.”
“Good thinking,” said Feena.
Chaney missed her sarcastic tone and basked in the compliment.
“We can work on figuring out who Rusk’s city friends are,” said Tal, “but I’m more interested in finding out what he wants with me. Dhauna was very nice, but she didn’t tell me anything about that.”
“ ‘Dhauna,’ is it?”
“Yes,” said Tal. “We hit it off. You could say we’re friends.”
“She’s the high priestess of Selûne!”
Tal smiled over his teacup. “She likes me.”
Feena turned away but glanced back at him out of the corner of her eyes. Rather than rise to the bait, she returned to the subject at hand. “Mother will give us a sending if someone spots Rusk.”
“Isn’t it dangerous for her to stay so close to the pack?” asked Tal. “Even with two of you there, aren’t you horribly outnumbered?”
“She can take care of herself,” said Feena. “Selûne grants strong powers against shapechangers.”
“They didn’t stop Rusk last time,” said Tal.
“That wasn’t our fault,” protested Feena. “He surprised us. It didn’t help that you’d locked yourself inside a cage and were no help in the beginning.”
“I was only in the cage to keep from hurting—”
“Girls, girls,” said Chaney. “You’re both pretty.”
“You stay out of this,” said Feena.
“He’ll probably come during a full moon, won’t he?” said Tal, pouring more tea.
“Not necessarily,” said Feena. “Unlike you, he can change shape whenever he likes. So can most of his pack.”
“You’re going to teach me how to do that, aren’t you?” said Tal.
“Maybe,” said Feena. “It all depends on you. Not everyone can manage to ride the moon.”
“It won’t matter if he just wants to kill you this time,” suggested Chaney. “You did cut off his arm, after all. I’d be pissed about that. Wouldn’t you, Feena?”
Feena ignored the remark. “Rusk is a proud man. You wounded his pride as much as his body, but I don’t think he wants you dead.”
“Because he thinks I’m this Black Wolf?”
“Where did you hear that?” demanded Feena. Her voice was tinged with alarm. “Did Rusk say it to you?”
“Actually, I heard it from you,” Tal smiled, “when you and Maleva left my tallhouse.” When Feena looked perplexed, Tal added, “My hearing has been getting keener. I wasn’t trying to spy on you.”
Feena frowned. “Never mind the Black Wolf prophecy. It’s nothing to do with you anyway.”
“It’s a prophecy? I thought you said ‘heresy.’ That’s what Dhauna called it.”
Feena looked to the heavens in exasperation. “Stop calling her that! It gives me the creeps.”
“So tell me about the prophecy.”
“It’s something Rusk believed. The temple of Selûne declared it heretical back in the Eighth Century.”
“Why?”
“Because it is heresy. It combines legends from the cult of Malar with philosophical discourses from sages devoted to Selûne. Besides, it’s a load of rubbish that’s been the cause of no end of trouble since Rusk first heard about it.”
“Because Rusk thinks I’m the Black Wolf? Or because he thinks he is?”
“It’s nothing to do with you or Rusk, and it’s bollocks anyway!”
The shop owner returned with a platter of steaming pies, setting them before each of his guests before hastening back to the kitchen. He looked glad to escape his bickering patrons.
For a while they ate in silence, blowing on the molten spoonfuls of thick gravy filled with chunks of meat and vegetables before tasting them. Chaney managed to burn his tongue and flapped his hands helplessly until one of the cooks ran to him with a cup of cold water.
Eventually, Tal broke the silence.
“All right, so you don’t want to talk about the Black Wolf, whatever that is. How are you planning to help me learn to ‘ride the moon’?”
“Is that another country euphemism like ‘roll in the hay’?” asked Chaney. Feena flicked a glob of hot gravy at him, and it stuck on his cheek. Chaney wiped it off with his thumb and sucked it clean.
“It means controlling your change, making it happen when you choose. It’s hard, and not everyone can do it.”
“How do you know how to do it?” said Tal.
“It’s something the clerics of Selûne have been teaching for years. It’s a discipline, a kind of meditation. It would have been a lot easier if you were one of us, because then you could take the moonfire. It’ll be even harder for you, since you have the attention span of a toddler.”
“She’s got you there,” said Chaney. “Master Ferrick was always calling Tal ‘unteachable.’ ”
“I’ve been doing very well lately, thank you. I’ve won a challenge almost every meet these past two months. You could’ve watched me whip Mervyn Elzimmer next time if you hadn’t dropped out.”
“Too expensive,” said Chaney. Before Tal could offer to pay his tuition, Chaney added, “Besides, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
Feena appraised him again, shaking her head in disbelief. When Chaney saw that she was looking down on him, he sat up straight.
“I guess everyone moved up a rank when Malveen quit,” said Chaney.
“He didn’t quit,” said Tal. “Pietro sold Arryn Kessel one of those weird paintings of his and said Radu was just out of town on business.”
&n
bsp; Like most others in Selgaunt, Tal had little use for the peculiar Pietro Malveen, but he admired Pietro’s older brother and hoped one day to challenge him to a match at Ferrick’s. First he would have to earn that right, however, and the prospect of testing his skill against that of Ferrick’s best student drove him more than any other force to hone his skill.
He had little hope of besting Radu Malveen at the blade, he knew, but Tal consciously tried to imitate the older man’s cool grace. Some might consider him aloof, but most of the other students were young and shallow in comparison, a good fifteen years younger than Radu.
“Can you two save the gossip for another time?” said Feena impatiently. “It’s not as if I know anything about your little social circles.”
“Sorry,” said Chaney.
Tal nodded. “All right, when do we begin learning to ride the moon?”
“The next full moon,” said Feena. “But there are things I can show you before then. Breathing’s the first thing.”
“I think he’s got that one licked,” said Chaney. This time it was Feena who kicked him under the table. “Ow! Between the two of you, I won’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Actually,” said Tal, “Breathing is one of the first things Master Ferrick taught us. Breathing and balance.”
“That’s good,” said Feena. “It’s probably similar to what we’ll be doing.”
Chaney opened his mouth to make another jest, but one dire glance from Feena shut it again.
“What are the two halves of balance?” asked Feena.
“The red and the white,” said Tal. “Aggression and passivity, anger and calm, force and acceptance.”
Feena looked impressed. “Then you understand that Malar is the red, Selûne the white.”
“Motion and stillness,” said Tal, nodding.
“Good and evil,” offered Chaney.
“No,” said Feena and Tal at once.
“Malar is evil,” corrected Feena. “That is, evil in the sense that we understand it. His followers are cruel and often wicked. But for what we’re discussing, it’s not a question of good or evil. It’s the light and the darkness, the moon and the shadow.”
“And you want both of them inside of you,” said Tal. “Right?”
Feena nodded, not in response to his question but in silent appraisal of all he had said. “I think this just might work,” she said.
“I hope so,” said Tal, “because otherwise I’m going to have to charge you for the room and board.”
CHAPTER 9
THE HIGH HUNT
Greengrass, 1371 DR
They reached Rusk’s lair the next morning. There was no sign of the lodge at first. Instead, Darrow saw thirteen colossal stone fangs curving inward to form a wide circle among the trees. Most of the fangs were twice the height of a man, but three had broken off at various points. On all of them were carvings of wolves, wildcats, boars, and other predators—including spear-wielding human hunters.
At the center of the ring was a ragged pit filled with cinders and bone fragments. Beside the fire was a low stone altar, its scarred face stained with blood. All around its edge was carved the symbol of Malar: a ragged claw. At its base were scattered weathered skulls of every sort of prey, including humans and elves.
They had walked around the lodge without noticing it, leading their horses along an old, worn path. It had been built in the side of a low hill in the Arch Wood, reinforced with stones and timbers, and covered with a sod roof, now overgrown with thistles and a few young trees. The only sign of its location was its entrance, a heavy leather flap painted with images of men and wolves hunting stags through a great forest.
The hunters left Balin’s carcass near one of the great stone fangs and retired to their lodge to sleep away the daylight. Darrow noticed that some of them had never transformed into humans and wondered whether they were true wolves. They were much larger than the animals he’d seen testing the borders of his father’s farm. Dire wolves, they called such beasts. One alone could take down a steer, while a pack could destroy a herd.
Radu chose a place for his tent and left Darrow to set camp while he searched for a nearby stream. Before he finished his work, Darrow spied an intruder. An old man emerged from the forest bearing a bundle of twigs under his arm and a crude rake over his shoulder. When he spotted Darrow, he nodded affably but did not approach. Instead, he set the twigs near the fire pit and began clearing the winter’s detritus from the circle.
Radu returned from his ablutions and retired to his tent without a glance at the old man. Curious about the newcomer but too tired to pester him, Darrow followed his master’s example and slept at the foot of the tent.
He awoke hours later to the sound of more new arrivals. Foresters and hunters, farmers from the edge of the Arch Wood or the outskirts of Highmoon, and far travelers who arrived wearing backpacks and an inch of road dust—they trickled in throughout the day to make camp around the lodge. Some set up fires and cooked dumplings or cakes to trade with other visitors. Others brought hares to roast or hedgehogs to bake in the banked coals. A minstrel strummed the yartar while her companion chanted the chronicle of Yarmilla the Huntress. Someone produced a small keg of ale and three wooden tankards, which the people passed from hand to hand.
As the sun descended behind the trees, the hunters emerged from the lodge to greet the visitors as the dire wolves padded around the edges, sniffing at them. The hunters clasped arms with the visitors, but Darrow saw that the newcomers held the hunters in high regard. After the friendly greetings, most of the hunters slipped into the woods singly or in pairs or trios. The rest remained to listen to news of births and deaths and the hardships of the past winter.
Darrow guessed that Radu was inside the lodge, so he went for a look. Before he could peer inside, a big bearded man came out and shoved him away from the door. Darrow stepped aside to let him pass, but the man pushed him again, forcing him onto the ground.
The man stepped close to loom over Darrow. He smelled of animal musk and wood smoke. He wore only leather breeches, and his bare feet were dirty and heavily callused. Dark red hair covered his body so thickly that it formed tufts on his forearms.
Darrow kept his eyes on the ground. The aggressor sniffed, spat on the ground near Darrow’s hand, then kicked some dirt on him before walking away. Darrow heard laughter but did not look up.
Instead, he got up and slapped the dust from his trousers. Suddenly he realized the white elf was standing just behind him. She had clothed herself in fringed leather breeches and a beaded vest that did little to conceal her supple body.
“Welcome to the lodge,” she said. Her tone held just enough irony that Darrow couldn’t tell whether she was mocking him or sympathizing. “Looking for your master?”
“Yes.” Darrow glanced once more inside the open lodge door, then strolled away. He felt the eyes of the nightwalkers and their pilgrims upon him as he walked with Sorcia.
“They’ve been talking all afternoon,” Sorcia said. “What little I overheard was … intriguing.”
Darrow shrugged, unwilling to discuss his master’s business with a stranger. Sorcia’s blue eyes sought his own, and he looked back with what he hoped was confidence rather than defiance. She had tied back her white hair with a leather thong, and Darrow saw that her flesh was not completely white after all. Her long, tapering ears were faintly pink, as was the translucent flesh of her wide eyelids. Faint blue veins showed through her skin at her throat and between her white breasts.
“Is it frightening to be outside your pen?” she asked, arching a pale eyebrow.
Darrow ignored the bait. “Who are all these people?” he asked, indicating the newcomers.
“They are the Huntmaster’s followers,” said Sorcia, “pilgrims for the High Hunt. We hunt for them in winter, so they pay homage to the Lord of the Hunt each season.”
“So they aren’t …” Darrow struggled to find the polite word.
“They are not People of the B
lack Blood. They are not nightwalkers,” said Sorcia, “but they are as loyal to Rusk as any of us.”
Darrow raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask the next obvious question. Sorcia saw it in his face and answered anyway.
“Strength breeds loyalty,” she said, “and strength must be tested.” She looked into Darrow’s face. “That’s one of the first lessons Rusk teaches his followers, whether they are mere followers or People.”
“Is that why Balin took over?”
“He was the strongest in Rusk’s absence. Even before then, Balin was restless. It was only a matter of time before he tried again.”
“You make it sound as though this happens all the time.”
“Rusk has been Bloodmaster for longer than most nightwalkers live. It is only natural that the younger wolves would try their strength against his.”
“It’s a wonder there is anyone left to follow,” said Darrow.
“He doesn’t kill every challenger,” said Sorcia, “only those who won’t submit when he proves his strength. You know how to submit, I see.”
Darrow frowned at her but did not comment. Instead, he stole a glance at the nightwalker who had bullied him. The man was drinking a cup of ale while listening to a few of the visitors.
“Ronan likes to test newcomers,” said Sorcia. “He almost beat Rusk last summer.”
“But Rusk spared him?”
“Even the strong must submit to greater strength,” said Sorcia. “Rusk smiles on those who want to test their strength. Ronan is likely to become his favorite now that Balin is dead.”
“I had the impression you were his favorite,” said Darrow. He expected a blush or at least a scolding glance, but Sorcia was nonplussed by his suggestion.
Sorcia walked around him once, slowly. Darrow felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as she came back to face him, smiling up into his face. She said nothing.
“Rusk must spend all of his time watching his back,” Darrow concluded.
“The pack is only as strong as its chief. Is it not the same in the city?”