by David Gross
“You don’t want to go too far,” he said. “Otherwise, you have to move too far for the counterattack.
“Show me the counterattack,” said Sivana.
“Not today,” said Tal.
Despite his reticence, Tal wanted nothing more than to fence. More honestly, he wanted to fight. He loved the contest, the trick of outthinking his opponent, then driving home the determining thrust.
He just couldn’t be sure he’d hold that thrust in check.
The feeling was strongest just before the full moon. Sometimes his arms craved impact and his legs wanted only to run after a foe and catch him. Sometimes he wished Rusk were not only alive but back in the city, rushing toward him. He felt his jaw clench and bite, wanting to feel a hot rush …
When such thoughts took hold, Tal shook his head so hard his hair stung his face. He stretched his arms as far as they would go, then let them hang loose at his sides, his fingers stirring in an invisible current.
Tal practiced with Perivel’s blade only alone, at night. If Lommy was watching, he’d use one of the practice swords instead. But when the tasloi ran off to join his brother, Tal took the monstrous sword out of its canvas bag and fought imaginary foes with lusty abandon until he noted and corrected his own mistakes. Much as he chided Mallion and Sivana, he berated himself when he caught himself blurring the lines between real fighting and choreography. Perivel’s sword should be used only for fighting, he decided. Not only was it too dangerous for play but it seemed made for killing. It had a purpose.
Tal found that he could wield the weapon with increasing ease, and he noted with satisfaction that his muscles had grown not only harder but sharper. The scars of Rusk’s attack had flattened with his stomach. They were still visible through his thick body hair, but perhaps they were not so ugly anymore.
One night, Tal paused in his drill to stand before the mirror to admire himself, stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat. He liked the way he looked and considered telling Quickly that he was willing go shirtless on stage again. Rehearsing the conversation in his mind, he realized how truly vain he had become—or how vain he had always been.
Even though he was alone, Tal flushed with shame. He didn’t like to face his own failings, especially those that he despised in Tamlin, his conceited older brother. In some ways, the brothers were not so different.
One night in late Uktar, just before the Feast of the Moon, Tal paused in his solitary practice. Something he couldn’t identify seemed out of place. He couldn’t hear Lommy and Otter, but that was not unusual. Sometimes they were quiet, even at night. Then Tal realized he had just felt a brief coolness on his naked back and caught a fresh whiff of the pre-dawn air. A glance told him that both stage doors were still closed, but he realized that one of them had been open seconds earlier. An intruder had entered the playhouse.
To his relief, Tal saw Perivel’s sword on the makeup table, where he’d left it. An assassin would have removed the weapon first, so maybe the intruder was merely a burglar. He would be a disappointed burglar, since Quickly removed the admission funds to a vault in her tallhouse each night. He’d be a regretful one, too, since Tal intended to find him.
Tal saw no one backstage, and he heard nothing unusual. His sense of smell had grown keen over the past ten months. When he sniffed the air, he detected only the usual odors of the Wide Realms: water reeds, lime, and horsehair from the thatched roof, oak beams and plaster from the walls, powder, greasepaint, and linen from the dressing tables, even nuts and orange rinds from the ground beyond the stage doors.
Despite the evidence of his senses, Tal was certain someone besides him and the tasloi was in the playhouse. Sword in hand, he stalked the unseen intruder, pausing every few moments to listen and sniff. He peered into the shadows between the larger props and scenery that lined the walls. Not even a rat emerged.
Tal looked over the backstage area again, hoping his threat would make the burglar nervous enough to break and run. No such luck.
Then Tal noticed one of the royal guards staring at him. Mallion always put the practice masks over the heads of the guards when practice was over. And now, four masks and a barefaced guardsman stood motionless against the wall.
The ruse amused Tal even as he pretended not to notice it. He feigned interest in the costume hampers while observing the masks out of the corner of his eye. None of them moved as he poked the baskets with the tip of his sword. He prepared to rush the intruder. He needed just a few more steps …
“Wait,” said a muffled voice from the fourth mask. It was a woman. “I know you can see me.”
Tal moved to stand between the intruder and the nearest outside door. “Show yourself,” he said.
The woman came out from behind the mannequins. Beneath the practice mask, her clothes were all dark gray, from gloves to tightly laced boots. Tal could see nothing else about her except that she walked with a confident grace. Awfully sure of herself for a captured burglar, he thought.
“Who are you?” he said.
“An admirer,” she said.
“A secret admirer, it would seem.”
The woman inclined her head. Tal wondered whether the gesture came with a smile under the wicker mask. “I’ve been coming to the plays lately,” she said. “You are very talented.”
“Thank you,” he said. “And you are very mysterious.”
She made an elegant curtsey. Charmed by the gesture, Tal bowed in return.
“I’m fairly sure you’re not here to kill me,” he said, “and there’s nothing worth stealing. But you know that, don’t you? Why are you here?”
“I mean you no harm, Talbot.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m just here to watch you for a while, to make sure you are all right.”
“Thamalon sent you, didn’t he?”
She didn’t answer. Perhaps Tal’s guess was wrong, or perhaps Cale was involved. His father’s butler was as mysterious as they come, and Tal had often suspected that the man had some sort of criminal connections.
“Perhaps I merely wanted to learn why you’ve disappeared from the rest of the city. You spend all your time here these days.”
That was true. Except during the full moon, Tal went to his tallhouse to eat, bathe, and sleep before returning to the playhouse. His absences had begun to irritate Eckert, whose fussy reminders had been replaced by a moody silence. Perhaps this stranger had been sent to spy on him because Eckert had too little to report to Tal’s father.
“I’ve been busy,” he said.
“Busy fencing alone at night? Are you expecting a fight?”
That was a question Tal hadn’t seriously considered before. Chances were good that Rusk wasn’t dead, but Tal didn’t expect him to come back to the city.
“It’s best to be prepared if one comes unexpectedly,” he said. “After all, you came to me, didn’t you?” He nodded toward the practice swords and raised his own to point at the woman’s head.
She put a hand on the hilt of one of the wooden swords. It was little more than a slightly curved staff with a cross-guard, its length marred with thousands of dents and scratches. “What will you give me if I hit you?”
Tal laughed, not just because he thought the woman couldn’t hit him but because he admired her attitude. “You came to learn how I’m doing. I’ll answer a question for each touch.”
“Done!” said the woman. Before Tal realized she had the sword in hand, she lunged forward and stabbed at his foot. He withdrew it, but not before she grazed the tip of his boot.
“That was a touch!” she cried. She neglected to disguise her voice, but Tal still couldn’t place it.
Annoyed by his own carelessness, Tal snapped at her. “Ask your damned question.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Because I should have been ready for you—”
“No,” she said. “Why are you so angry all the time?”
“I’m not …” he began.
He k
ept up his guard as he considered both the question and the woman who asked it. For a moment he thought it might be his sister, Tazi, but she wouldn’t disguise herself. Even more than Chaney, she could talk to Tal about anything. He decided there was no harm in answering, no matter who she was.
“I hate other people deciding my life for me,” he said at last.
The woman beat Tal’s sword lightly then cut over it and feinted. He withdrew out of range, keeping the tip of his blade near hers.
“Who does that?” She cut under Tal’s blade, then again as he followed. “Your father?” Tal reversed and feinted, cutting under to attack her leg as she parried the false thrust. She barely managed to parry the real attack.
“You’re good,” Tal said, “but that’s another question. I bet you won’t hit me again.”
He attacked her blade in a flurry of beats interspersed with feints. She retreated and he followed, crossing over to put her back in the corner. She saw what he was doing and dived to the ground, tumbling away from the trap.
Tal nearly struck her as she escaped, but he hesitated to hit her in the back. As she turned, she saw that she had been vulnerable.
“How gallant,” she said, “not to strike a lady in the back.”
“How do I know you’re a lady?”
“You’ll have to take my word for it,” she said with a sudden attack at his wrist. Now his blood was up, and Tal’s blade moved with time to spare.
“I think it’s my turn for an answer.” Tal stamped, but the ruse failed to shake her guard.
He tried a binding glide, but she caught it and withdrew as she parried, circling past the royal guards. She shoved one toward Tal and darted to the side, but he anticipated the trick and was already there. He rapped her lightly on the calf.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I didn’t agree to answers.”
“It’s only fair,” he said, moving closer. “Besides, that’s my mask. I think I’ll take it back now.”
“No!” she said, putting both hands on the sword in an earnest guard.
This time Tal didn’t hold back, attacking her blade with his full strength. Feeling the power of his blows, his opponent retreated and dodged to avoid taking his attack on her blade. She was as quick as he, but not nearly so strong.
When he came too close, she attacked his exposed head to make him parry. As he did, she threw her sword between his legs, almost tripping him as he lunged to follow. By the time he recovered his balance, she had the door open.
She was almost out of the playhouse when Tal caught the back of her tunic and pulled back hard, lifting her feet off the ground. She twisted around and kicked his knee hard, but he took it and snarled at the pain. He dropped the wooden sword, grabbed the front of her mask, and turned her to face him.
She punched him in the stomach. He didn’t even grunt. She shot a knee at his groin, but he blocked it with his thigh.
“Don’t,” she said. Her voice was strong, not pleading.
“You owe me an answer, and I intend—” Tal stopped.
With his face so close to her mask, he could smell the woman’s skin. She was very clean, as if she’d bathed just before coming out to spy on him. Tal smelled the ghost of bathing oils and beauty creams, and a more familiar scent beneath them.
He released the woman, leaving her mask in place. Even so close to its narrow slits, he saw only the vaguest image of her gray eyes looking back at him. Her lower face was obscured by the same cloth that muffled her voice.
An apology formed in his throat, but he swallowed it. Instead, he said, “You can keep the mask.”
She stepped away, making sure the door was open and the way clear before she turned back to speak again.
“Thank you,” she said. She seemed about to say something else, but then she turned and ran away.
“You can keep yours, too,” she said when she thought she was out of range.
Now that he had the answer to his question, a hundred more bloomed in his mind as he listened to his mother go.
CHAPTER 13
THE MOONLION
Winter, 1372 DR
The Year of Wild Magic
The pack settled in for the winter. The snow limited their ranging, but they continued to hunt in all but the most violent weather. In case game was scarce, they also had plenty of salted meat and vegetable stores from the northern communities. It was both tribute and thanks for the hunting they had done for the northern settlements in the tendays before the Feast of the Stag.
The werewolves remained in the lodge most days. They tended chores for only a few hours each day, stitching clothes, mending weapons, and repairing the lodge itself.
The pack included only six children under thirteen. They ran with the adults soon after they could walk, and few of them survived to make their rites of adulthood at thirteen. Those who did were strong and cunning. Despite his growing acceptance by the pack, Darrow knew he was still less dangerous than some of these cubs of ten years or younger.
The pack spent less time on work than they did amusing themselves with simple games and stories. Darrow earned more esteem among the pack by teaching them a game of stones he learned as a boy. He carved the triangular grid on several planks to pass around, and soon everyone was playing “Darrow’s Stones.”
He also found himself a popular storyteller. Even though he had no gift for it, he could reconstruct bards’ tales the others had never heard before, and he remembered a few plays he had seen in Selgaunt. He even recalled seeing Talbot Uskevren perform on one or two occasions, though he didn’t find the young man remarkable at the time.
“Why did Rusk not bring him back to us?” asked Morrel.
“Have you seen him clap lately?” remarked Sorcia. Since their ignoble retreat from Maleva’s cottage, the white elf disparaged the Huntmaster at every opportunity.
Morrel ignored Sorcia. “More importantly, why did he want him in the first place? I know it has to do with the Black Wolf prophecy, but what the hell is that?”
“Don’t you listen?” said Brigid. She lowered her voice and mimicked Rusk’s resonant baritone. “The Black Wolf will lead us in the wild hunt across all the land to reclaim our rightful territory.”
“Enough of that,” snapped Morrel.
“Afraid he might hear you?” asked Sorcia.
“I’m not the one mocking the word of Malar,” he said. “Rusk knows something he can’t tell us yet. It’s a test of our faith in him, and in the Beastlord.”
Sorcia raised her eyes toward the ceiling.
“What is the Black Wolf?” asked Darrow. “The way he says it it sounds like it’s something everyone knows about.”
“You know how you learn to change without the moon?” said Brigid.
Darrow nodded.
“That’s part of it,” she said. “You learn to control your transformations even when the moon is completely dark; you’re one step closer to the Black Wolf.”
“It’s also part of who we are,” added Morrel. “Some nightwalkers are really just beasts. They have no code, no community. Most of them are slaves to the moon—they don’t have the Black Blood like us. Others are tamed to join the herd. That’s what the Selûnites do. They cut off your balls to make you gentle.”
Darrow was surprised by this news. “They don’t actually—”
“No,” laughed Brigid, “but the result’s the same. You do what they say, and they put your beast to sleep, so you don’t chase the other sheep around the pen.”
“What they don’t realize is that the Black Blood sets us above the herd,” said Morrel. “We’re the hunters, and we have no lords among men. The Black Wolf is a state of being, when you have no master but Malar.”
“So Rusk is the Black Wolf?” asked Darrow.
“Maybe,” said Morrel.
Sorcia snorted and walked away.
“It depends whether you mean he’s reached that state or whether he’s the Black Wolf of prophecy. Not everyone believes the Black
Wolf Scrolls are the word of Malar.”
“But Rusk does.”
“Yeah, I think he does.”
A draft came into the lodge, right over the place where Darrow usually slept. He tried to ignore it for a few nights, but it grew stronger. He peered up at the root-tangled ceiling but saw no hole. He felt the incoming air with his hands and guessed where it originated outside. Bundling himself in furs, he went outside to patch it.
After sweeping away the snow in several places, Darrow finally heard a murmuring sound through the sod roof. A glimmer of red light shone through a hole. He was nowhere near the fire pit, so he peered inside.
He was above Rusk’s sanctum.
The sound he heard was Rusk’s voice, chanting low and steady. Darrow smelled smoke and tasted incense in the air. He knew he should cover the hole and go away, but curiosity overcame his fear. He put his face right against the hole and shielded it from the light with his arms.
Below him, Rusk sat cross-legged on the floor, illuminated only by the glowing coals of a black iron brazier. His naked body gleamed with animal fat, though his silver hair fell loose about his shoulders. Where he had lost his arm, an ugly worm of flesh clung to his shoulder.
A congregation of skulls looked down on the ritual from their places on the walls. In the darkness, the skulls seemed to float around the Huntmaster. Darrow noted the skulls of deer, wildcats, boars, owlbears, and other monstrous beasts of the Arch Wood—there were even the skulls of humans and elves.
“Great hunter,” intoned Rusk, “hear my plea. Great Malar, show me your wisdom and will.”
As his prayer ended, flames rose from the brazier’s coals. Rusk thrust his hand above flames, clutching a scrap of parchment.
“This is the path of the moon and its shadow. Show me a sign, if it marks truly the night of the Black Wolf.”
The flames rose, and licked around his fist leaving parchment and skin unburned. When they subsided, Rusk set the parchment aside before holding his hand once more above the fire.