Epilogue
Heart of Ariye
Sevlit arranged the sticks in the fire pit as the children began to gather near his wagon. The evening was full of soft noise: wood creaking, dnu stamping their feet, a dozen families murmuring as they set up evening camp. The light dust of three dozen kays clung to his teeth, and his muscles ached from riding. But this was his hour, when the world hung on his voice and the tiredness of others could be forgotten within the realms of stories. So he accepted more sticks from another young pair of arms and built the wood fire higher.
He studied the group as he arranged the branches, watching the youths who pushed each other eagerly for a seat near the fire pit, and then those who showed more sober faces: the boy with the large brown eyes and stringy blond hair; the two sisters who never let go of each other’s hands, even when they sat down; the young man whose sharp voice stilled his brother; the girl with the loose black braid …
Sevlit let his eyes linger on the black-haired girl. She was young—nine or ten, perhaps—and her riding boots had seen more wear than this caravan had provided, but her slender frame was already muscled, rather than simply lanky. She did not smile, but in the dusk her dark eyes glinted with anticipation at his words, and her gaze followed his movements like a wolf stalking prey. She rode with her parents sometimes, away from the rest of the caravan, and other times alone, beside neBukua’s wagon. She seemed a quiet child, but Sevlit had heard her laugh and sing as noisily as the rest when she thought she was alone. She had not yet lost her dreams, though she already had the eyes of the Gray Ones, far-seeing, deep-reaching, and wary.
The future, he thought, in the hands of such a child…
He nodded to himself, then waited for the small crowd to settle. Waited while the parents provided their last admonishments before moving off to prepare the suppers. Waited while the scouts set watches around the camp, and the older youths began to split wood to replace what they would use that night. Waited for the noises and voices to become a background hum, until his patience itself became intriguing.
“Heart of Ariye,” he said softly. The group stilled. The evening seemed to deepen as though, with those three words, his breath drew the darkness close like a curtain across the day. The glowing wood sparked, and Sevlit spread his hands, smoothing air and fire into palette and paint for his story.
Where is hope, that you might find it?
Where are dreams that you might see them?
What is life, that it continues?
Who is the Heart of Ariye?
Wolfwalkers run the trails at night
They scout our borders, watch our homes
And one among them stands alone:
The Gray Wolf of Ramaj Randonnen,
The gray Heart of Ariye.
The firelight caught the words like tree sprits, playing his questions back in the children’s eyes as the yellow-bright flames began to consume the wood. He felt the familiar anticipation, the catch in his own breath. Each story had its own life, its own passions, but this one had made his own pulse pound ever since he first heard it. He nodded at the children, pulling their gazes with him. And within the lines of the story, the sound of the fire crackling became a rhythm of its own.
Ariyens work in secret, silence,
Recovering the ancient skills;
That once again, we’ll touch the stars
And skies of other worlds.
But next month, next year, next century—
They hang like threats, dissolving time,
Till past and future merge once more,
And ancient plagues, which killed before,
Are roused to kill again.
What would you do to keep your hopes?
How long will you struggle to dream?
How far ahead will a wolf-mother run
To built a future for her sons?
To protect her wolf-spun children?
Sevlit let his gaze take in the group, as though he was asking the questions of each child. The fire, still gaining strength as it ate the surface of new wood, threw off only thin tendrils of smoke, while the flames themselves were quiet. The storyteller nodded, as if he had heard the answer he wanted within the children’s silence.
Aranur’s Heart looked long ahead
And taught her wolf-sons how to seek:
So as they learned the trails here
They set their feet on older roads—
On paths to Ancient stars.
She took them with the wolfpack, hunting,
To Still Meadow’s heavy grass.
Hidden eyes sought out their footsteps;
Hidden minds saw what she taught:
Saw the Heart of Ariye.
Sevlit’s hand fluttered like wings, and the blackness of the lepa beasts came alive. Birdbeast eyes were the sparks that snapped up into the smoke; his fingers were talons as he clutched the images before him. His shoulders tensed as if it were his hands on the knife, his hands that fought to hold on to his son, his fists that clutched the earth as he lay, finally, dying.
He let his hands fall. The coals hissed, but did not spark. His voice was tight. He let the tears blur his eyes and catch in his throat; he let his hands curl into fists as though he drew emotion, not simply from himself, but from the listeners instead. Someone stirred at the edge of the shadows, and he knew the parents were gathering. His voice gained strength.
But Ariyen love is strong as steel—
Binding, bending, never breaking;
And Aranur could not release
The gray Heart of Ariye.
He Called the wolves and forced them in;
Bid them tear into her soul;
Bid them find her, bind her to him.
Commanded them to hold her:
The gray Heart of Ariye.
The wolf packs Answered, gathered to him;
Held his mate where love could not.
Swept her on a tide of gray;
Forced her once-stilled heart to stay;
Claimed the Heart of Ariye.
What price of him who Called the wolves?
Who dared cold death to save our dreams?
What seized the moons in payment for
The Heart of our Ariye?
He offered life in place of hers,
That she continue with the wolves,
Teaching courage, vision, hope—
The Heart of our Ariye.
Sevlit let his eyes roam the crowd. His voice was sober yet compelling, and his hands, half open, were suspended above the flames, as though they captured and reshaped each word he loosed into the air.
And yet, Ariyen love still bound her
Aranur still touched her soul.
And from the moons, he urged her on,
Through the packsong, through the wolves.
His heart, the Heart of Ariye.
He led her north, to icy mountains,
Where once Ariyens dared the stars,
Where different wings swept frigid peaks
And saw the Heart of Ariye. And
Took the Heart of Ariye.
Aiueven, distant, mind-cold, eerie,
Icy-white and glowing cold,
Jealous of their wings of moonlight,
Wary of Ariyen goals.
They challenged her to find our future;
Challenged her to reach their stars;
Flaunted space and flight before her;
Dared the Heart of Ariye.
Ariyen-driven; gray-wolf owned,
She set one pact against another:
Debt to debt, and life to life.
She bound them with her unborn children;
Bound our futures with her blood:
Aiueven and Human.
Sevlit’s clenched hands crossed his chest, holding that binding within himself. Then he forced his voice to warm, releasing the tension with the flaring of the fire at his feet.
We who work in hopeful silence,
Hiding science in our homes,
Stretching
dreams toward night-dark skies,
Gazing at forbidden moons;
We strive to spread our arms in flight,
Like hawks that rise on distant worlds, On wings, that with our blood was bought,
By one whose vision was returned.
Where is that hope, that you might find it?
Look you to the forest night;
Listen for the Gray One’s howling;
Look you to your own self’s heart.
Aranur, whose strength and faith
Held off the grip of icy death;
Who offered life for one more chance,
To touch the Ancients’ Earth.
And the Gray Wolf of Ramaj Randonnen,
Who fought to keep an ancient pledge—
Took our goals and paid their price,
And gave to us our future.
Where is hope, that you might find it?
Where are dreams, that you might see them?
What is life, that it continues?
Who is the Heart of Ariye?
Who is the Heart of Ariye?
Sevlit’s words hung in the air like tiny, foreign suns, spinning out above the fire. In the pit, the flames crackled softly; the coals glistened like gold. The sparks that snapped up with the smoke circled in the thready vortex before whispering into the night.
Finally, a boy with skinned elbows and a smudged face shifted uncomfortably. His young voice broke the suspense that had continued to hold, and the storyteller hid his smile as the child smudged the dirt further when he rubbed at his cheek. “Who is the Heart of Ariye?” the boy asked. “Where is it now?”
The storyteller spread his hands, as if to encompass the group. This was what he loved best—the afterward, when he could shape each child by his answers. It was those gems that sparkled in the eye long after his other words faded. He looked at the boy, but let his expression take in the group. “The Heart?” he echoed. “The Heart of Ariye is in you.”
“In me?” the boy asked, surprised. “Just me?”
“No,” Sevlit smiled. “It is in each of you—in you and you and you.” He pointed. “The Heart of Ariye—it means that you are your own center. You are what you make yourself: brave, skilled, determined, wise. Like Aranur—or the wolfwalker.” He caught the child’s gaze again. “You are the Heart,” he said. “You are the future. Carry that well, boy, and you can carry the world.”
The young boy stared back, his eyes wide. He almost missed his brother tugging at his sleeve, urging him to return to their wagon as the group broke up. Parents came to retrieve their families; older siblings ordered smaller ones about. The smells of dinners warming and roasting tugged at Sevlit’s nose. But he was not yet alone at the fire. The black-haired girl still waited, even as the others left. He knew she could take herself back to neBukua’s wagon had she wished it, but she lingered, her gaze following his movements as he tucked another stick in the flames.
“What is it, child?” he asked quietly.
She studied him for a moment, and he could almost see the thoughts turning over in her mind. Then she said, “The story is about Aranur. Who did he love so much back then? Who is the Heart of Ariye?”
The lines of Sevlit’s face, which had wrinkled and stretched and held so much emotion as he had told the story, became still and sober. Someone shifted at the edge of the firelight, and he looked over the girl’s shoulder to the single figure who melted out of the trees. For a moment, he met the wolfwalker’s gaze. The Wolfwalker had heard the question—he saw it in her face. But even as he saw the shadows gather in those violet eyes, he knew what he would say. And even as he saw her beg him silently not to answer, even as he saw her expression grow bleak with the words that rose to his lips, even as he knew he would forever change the girl’s life, he said, “Child, she is your mother.”
He held out his hand to the shadows, and the woman moved into the firelight. She and Sevlit exchanged I a long glance, until the storyteller inclined his head and looked away. The woman took Noriani’s hand and tucked it gently in the grip of her scarred fingers. And as they walked away, he heard the little girl ask, “Momma, what is your name?”
Friends of Tara K. Harper say that she is opinionated, blunt, far too efficient, unexpectedly patient, and kind.
About half her friends think she is a thrill seeker.
The rest seem to think she alternates between thinking,
dreaming, and working in a passionate frenzy,
but they like her cooking and even enjoy the music
when she stops playing the same piece three days
in a row. Her husband agrees with her friends—
on all those points—but he married her, so he has to
be more politic about it.
Ms. Harper graduated from the University of Oregon,
then went into high-tech, where she has worked
for R…D test-and-measurement companies ever since.
Active in community service, she teaches creative
writing for alternative schools, trains youth
in wilderness skills, and serves on the board of
directors for a youth treatment center. Ms. Harper is
a member of the Author’s Guild.
A martial artist for many years, Ms. Harper also hikes,
kayaks, sails, and is active in outdoor sports.
She admits to having been caught in undertows,
tidal waves, bogs, quicksand, and river bottom runs.
She has slept with bees in her ears and deer at her feet;
she has been bear-bashed too many times to count.
She paints in watercolors and oils, sculpts in stone,
plays the violin, composes music, and still claims
she wants to be a stuntperson.
A Del Rey® Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1997 by Tara K. Harper
http://www.randomhouse.com
Library of Congress Catalog Number: 97-92491
eISBN: 978-0-307-49883-0
v3.0
Wolf's Bane Page 39