Dion couldn’t help the sudden jump in her heartbeat. But the footsteps, though light, were not Aranur’s—he would not have walked so easily past a roomful of raiders. She waited, and the man below crossed to the stairs. But when the raider came in sight, the wolfwalker’s eyes widened.
“Aye, Dione,” he said. “It is I.”
Those dark blue-gray eyes, the shallow seams in his face. Wide shoulders; heavy, gnarled hands; and gray-peppered hair … It was the raider who had tried to take her before out on Red Wolf Road. The one who had herded her away from the venge, then said her name like a promise. His eyes had been in her nightmares; his face, hanging over hers, while he powered her back… She took a half step toward him, her face tightening into a snarl as the noose brought her up short. In her head, the gray voices gathered.
The tall man untethered the noose from the wall, flipped it out of the roof hook, and let the line fall slack on the floor. Then he waited.
“What do you want?” She forced the words out.
“Where is your wolf?” he asked.
“How’s your hip?”
Slowly, he smiled and stepped forward. “The wolf, Dione. Where is it?”
Her weight shifted fractionally.
Bandrovic kicked her almost negligently, anticipating her attack. The blow, flickeringly fast, caught her on the thigh, smashing her like a mallet. She staggered back, her face blanched, her teeth clenched to keep from gasping. Only the wall kept her from falling. She stared at him, then slid to a half-crouched position as her right knee slowly gave way.
Bandrovic studied her. “That’s all the fight that’s in you?” He glanced at the guard, who shrugged. Bandrovic took Dion’s shoulders and stood her up again, balancing her firmly as her scarred leg refused to hold her weight. He pulled her to him and grabbed her chin, tilting her face up. When he kissed her, his lips were dry and hard against hers.
She shook back, instinctively revulsed, and Bandrovic stared deeply into her eyes. Then he kissed her again, deeply. She made a choked sound and struggled, but it was Bandrovic who pushed her away.
He stared at her with narrowed eyes. “This is it? This is the great Healer Dione? The ghost of the forest? The Gray Wolf of Randonnen? The Heart of Ariye? Where is your fight, woman? Where is your fire?”
He hit her then, hard, on the cheek. Her head rocked back, but there was no sound except the smack of his hand on her face. It was calm, calculating, and the raider’s expression was intent, as if he judged her will by her lack of reaction. He hit her again. The third time, she raised her head from his blows and spat blood on his boots.
He eyed her almost curiously. “No cursing, no crying. No fury of the Gray Ones … Where is the fighter who refused to die? Where is the legend I’ve followed? Or do you simply face your path to hell with the stoicism of a stone?”
She forced her words out between clenched teeth. “There’s no fear of hell in me. I’ve already faced the moons.”
“So I heard. You died in Still Meadow, and the wolves pulled you back. That, Dione, must have been interesting.” He studied her intently. “It touched you, didn’t it—your death?”
She couldn’t answer.
“Your eyes—they’re almost dark now. There’s little life left in them. Your face is drawn. Your expression set, not fierce … Whatever you found on the path to the moons has painted your soul with blackness.” His voice trailed off, as if he spoke more to himself than to her. “You’ll be no figurehead like this. You’ll be no use to me.”
He raised his hand as if to strike her again, but she didn’t blink. Slowly, instead, he ran his hand through his hair. The gesture was somehow so like that of Gamon that Dion’s eyesight blurred. Bandrovic saw it and nodded. “That’s it, Dione,” he said softly. “Call your wolf. Call her and your mate to help you.”
Abruptly, she focused.
He pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her throat. She didn’t flinch. Abrupdy, he jammed the point of the blade under the noose. The rope tightened, and Dion choked horribly. Then the rope slit and fell away. The ring of reddened, half-torn flesh that was left behind burned in Dion’s mind. Blood dripped down her throat. Her eyes shifted with the sudden wash of gray feet that padded through her skull.
Bandrovic, without taking his gaze off her, said to the other man, “Go up and check the flags. They’ll be coming soon.”
Dion tried to speak and choked. She pushed herself away from the wall. Swaying, she had to force the hoarse words out. “What do you want? What are you after?”
He ignored her words, and the guard spoke first. “MaKathru’s already up on the roof.”
Bandrovic shook his head. “Send her out on the steps with Rossotti. The two of them are clean enough to pass muster. And send neBugeya to check the seawall. I want the dinghy ready to sail as soon as we descend.”
“What about her?” The raider indicated Dion.
The tall man shrugged. “She’s nothing now. I’ll use her as bait.”
Dion’s voice was hoarse. “Bait for whom?” she asked. “For the wolves? Gray Hishn isn’t coming. I sent her away days ago. You’re a fool if you think I’d call her back just to set her up in your trap.”
He didn’t smile. “I saw your eyes, Dione. You Called the wolves—you couldn’t help it. And they can’t help their Answer. You Called them years ago, and they Answered. You did it again this spring—the counties were full of the stories. Time and again, you Call your wolf and others to your side. You’re careless, Dione. You’re predictable as night after day. When you’re in danger, the Gray Ones gather like winter worlags. And Aranur comes running with them.”
Dion felt a chill slide down her neck with her blood. “It’s not me you want at all,” she breathed. “It’s Aranur you’re after.”
“I’d have taken you too, if I could. But there is no heart left in you.”
“I’ll do what you want.” Her voice was almost desperate.
“I know,” he said. Deliberately, he turned his back on her and strode to the shuttered window. He opened the shutters and stared out at the bay where the tall ships rocked at moorage.
She took a half step forward. The raider at the doorway shifted with warning, but she ignored him. “Why Aranur?” she demanded. “Why like this? You could kill him more simply a dozen different ways.”
Bandrovic shrugged. “Death is so final, Wolfwalker. There are other, more useful conditions.”
“He’d rather die than be used against his family, his county. He’ll be no hostage for you.”
Bandrovic closed the shutters. “He’ll have no choice,” he said.
XIV
One breath
From life to death;
One glimpse of fate;
One instant that hangs
Forever
Before the ax
Falls.
Bandrovic left her alone in the room; the guard had gone upstairs. Dion sat on the floor, her shoulder against the wall. Her cheek throbbed where Bandrovic had hit her; she could no longer feel her hands. She let her eyes close as she sought the mindless distance of the packsong. Aranur … He had been a presence in her thoughts for so long that she still felt as if he hunted her. Even knowing that her mental plea couldn’t reach him, she still built a picture of him in her mind and set it in the packsong.
Her forehead rubbed against the wall, and her circlet shifted. Deliberately, she rubbed her head against the wall again so that it loosened around her skull. She reached deeply into her mind. Yellow, slitted eyes blinked back, swamped with the sense of the wolves. Her voice was barely a whisper in the empty, shuttered room. “You took my sword, you took my knives. But you left me my healer’s band. You thought like I did—that smooth silver was life, not a knife of death. But the silver and steel are meshed in me. I am both, not one or the other. And I might not escape myself, but sure as the moons can cross the sky, I can and will escape you.”
Carefully, she worked against the
wall until the circlet was skewed on her head and she could push it off to fall into her lap. Then, gingerly, she worked it until she had it between her knees. It was easy to bend down and use her teeth to rotate the band until the seam was up. Even easier to release the hidden catch. The tiny blade Aranur had insisted be concealed in the circlet was free.
She grasped the headband in her teeth and dropped it against the wall, where her thigh pressed against the wood. Then she tried to allow it to slide slowly to the floor, but she didn’t have the right angle. The circlet dropped with a thunk. The small sound made her freeze. But there was no cessation of low voices from below, and she cursed quietly, more in relief than anger. The gray shadows gathered in her mind. “Hurry,” she told them. “Find Aranur.” They were running now along the side of the road, and their snarls when they passed a short caravan were almost audible to her.
It took minutes to get the headband up far enough between her body and the wall that she could hold it there with her hip. She couldn’t reach the exposed blade with the ropes between her wrists, but as she strained to stretch far enough, she realized that she didn’t have to cut the line there. All she had to do was cut the ropes around the outer part of her forearms—that should loosen the rest enough for her to work herself free. And she could just get her forearms to the wall where her hip braced the circlet’s blade.
Five minutes? Ten? She didn’t know. Tension made time drag with the effort and race with the fear of discovery. She could feel something start to give. It wasn’t a sensation in her hands so much as in her shoulders as her arms parted a fingerwidth.
Noises wafted into the room as people moved along the street. Below her the raiders became quiet. She almost had her arms free when there was a sudden noise overhead, then the sounds of someone descending the steps. She froze. With her arms still behind her, and her body leaned up against the wall as if for support, she looked as though she had hardly moved from when Bandrovic had left her. The raider didn’t even bother to give her a second glance before hurrying down the stairs. Dion rubbed harder on the rope.
One of the ropes separated, but the others remained tight. Doggedly, she kept on working. She crushed her impulse to hurry. Her shoulders were beginning to ache from the tension of moving up and down at that angle. Another strand separated. She wriggled her wrists and felt the bonds loosen—enough to allow her shoulders to roll. She wrenched them again and felt her flesh tear.
Below, the voices raised briefly. A door opened and shut. Dion felt the loop on one wrist slacken again. She rubbed again on the tiny blade until she felt her arms begin to pull apart. Viciously, she strained at the rope. One of her wrists wriggled free. Her arms, still bound, began to tingle, and she bit her lip against what was coming. When the burning hit, it was all she could do to keep her hiss from becoming a scream. The circulation that returned to her flesh was worse than a raider beating.
Slowly, she twisted until the ropes loosened further and she could pull her whole arm free. She gasped silently in relief as she brought both hands in front of her. Her wrists were a bloody mess. She tried to extend and clench her fingers, but they were purplish blobs. Deliberately, she kept at it, shaking free of the loops and chunks of rope. Some part of her mind automatically stretched to the wolves as though Hishn could take some of the burning in her hands, but it was the other wolves who answered. Suddenly alone in the wolf pack, she was swamped by their intensity. She had to bite back the sound that rose in her tightened throat.
Wolfwalker, they howled back into her head.
Hurry, she thought, clenching her teeth, but she didn’t project the word.
We hunt your mate, they sang, still caught by the message she had sent before. We run with the wind, Wolfwalker!
She shook her hands, then worked them for several minutes, stretching and clenching her fingers and fists until she could feel enough to take her headband from the floor and close the hidden clasp. Finally, she did it, then jammed it back on her head.
She took what was left of the rope and slunk to the door. There, she stopped and listened. The raiders were still downstairs, speaking in low tones. Carefully, she eased up the steps. She almost held her breath on the way up, but nothing creaked.
It was two flights up to the door that led to the captain’s walk. There were no sounds at the door other than those of the bay birds and breeze. Carefully, she eased the door open. There was no one on the small walk. The only movement, other than herself, was the light rippling of the two signal flags that flew at the top of the flagpole. A small red standard fluttered on top, and underneath it, a plain yellow one with a large green circle lifted and flapped desultorily. She was tempted to change the flags, picking colors at random from the box against the balustrade, but the urgency that filled her made her feet itch for the ground.
The rowhouse, one of five in the block, was situated parallel to the waterfront. The front of it faced west; the back faced east. This captain’s walk was slightly higher than the two rowhouses to the south, and the walks to the north were slightly higher than the captain’s walk. It gave the shared roofs a staggered appearance, as if some lost, nostalgic farmer had tried to terrace the town.
Dion studied the bay. The sparkling water lay like a bed of diamonds, and the wind was blowing crossways to the tide. The bay was cut with white lines where the tide and surface current conflicted. Moving carefully to the edge of the walk, she studied the street below. Even with the rope, she couldn’t go down the front of the house—there were two raiders on the steps: a woman shelling beans as if she lived in the house, and the messenger who had lured Dion there. The few people moving along the block would be no help to her. If raiders could come and go at will, the neighbors must not care.
The captain’s walk extended halfway back along the roof. There, the surface became peaked, with the northernmost row-houses sharing a roof and the other three rowhouses sharing another sloping surface. Dion eyed the slick tiles warily. Then she sat down and removed her boots. She tied her footgear together with one of the chunks of rope and slung the boots over her shoulder. Her feet would give her better purchase than any leather soles.
Carefully, she eased out into the vee where the two roofs met. It took only a moment to reach the other end of the house. There, she squatted and studied the street again. This street looked like the other one except that there were no raiders on the back steps. There were also no railings to which to attach her rope.
She chewed her lip. She could feel the wolves still gathering, hunting Aranur’s trail like a pack of worlags, just as the raiders would hunt her should she jump for the street. Her landing would attract attention, and without some way to get away quickly from the house, she would be run down within seconds. Five minutes, ten … She didn’t know how long she squatted there thinking, waiting for something to change. Then, several blocks away, a rider caught her eye. It was a man moving swiftly, but she knew his seat. Gamon … He disappeared behind another row of houses. Dion bit her lip so hard she drew blood. A moment later, another rider came into view, one block closer than Gamon. Aranur … They were searching the blocks, riding them one by one to find her.
She stood and waved. Aranur didn’t see her. He was almost out of the intersection. Deliberately, Dion whistled. It was a short, sharp blast, followed by a quick trill and a higher note—a sequence easily mistaken for birdsong. The tones carried clearly. Instantly, Aranur halted. He didn’t look around, but he cocked his head. Dion repeated the final tone. This time he looked up. Urgently, she waved again. He turned his dnu and spurred the beast down the street.
Inside, on the first floor of the house, Bandrovic held up his hand for silence. The other raiders stilled. “Check the wolf-walker,” he said to neVenklan. The burly man took the stairs two at a time.
“What is it?” one of the others asked.
“Aranur—or Gamon. They’re here.”
“How do you know?”
“That whistle—it’s an Ariyen communication used in the Ll
oroi’s family.”
NeVenklan leaned half down the stairs. “She’s gone,” he reported. He started to run back up, to follow Dion to the roof.
“No,” Bandrovic said sharply. “Let her go. She can’t go down over the front—maLien is out there with Rossotti. She’ll try to go down the back, and that will take her a few minutes. We can use that to our advantage. You two, get to the seawall. Pull the moving wagons the rest of the way into the street. Make sure it’s blocked completely. You and you, cross Bicheppe Street—not so fast, dammit—and do it as if you belong there. You don’t want to alert the Ariyens, and they don’t want to attract attention, so they’ll assume you’re out going to work, and you will ignore them completely. Once across Bicheppe Street, you can block them from turning east. That will herd them toward the seawall.” He turned to the others. “NeVenklan, take your three and circle the block to the west. Come up on them from behind. I want them bolting for the seawall with no thought but speed. NeCrischyk, you’re with me. We’ll go straight to the waterfront and wait by the western wagon.” He was already heading for the door. “Go,” he said sharply. As one, they moved.
On the roof, Dion lay down and leaned out, her head upside down as she looked under the eaves for something to which to tie the rope. Aranur didn’t call out a greeting. Instead, he eyed the street warily in both directions while she worked. She had to knock an eaver’s nest from the bore hole in which it was built, but it took only a second to do so—the dry mud crumbled easily. Quickly, she passed the end of the line through the hole and knotted it. It wasn’t long enough to reach more than halfway down the house, but that was enough to get her feet to the outer beams on the walls. She glanced down. Two riders started to cross the street a block away, and she ducked quickly back on the roof. When she peered back out, both riders were gone, and Aranur waved for her to hurry. Quickly, she pulled her sleeves down over her hands, then grabbed the line and let her weight swing off the roof until she hung on the rope by her hands.
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