The Mage

by Inbali Iserles

  I reached out to him with my thoughts. Don’t die! I begged him. The Elders need you. It surprised me how much I cared. I reminded myself that Jana had tricked me, that Métis had pleached with a wolf. But I couldn’t think badly of them, not really. Skulks were falling to the Mage, free foxes were forced into his army of Taken. My heart ached when I remembered little Mox, killed because he hadn’t been strong enough to fight for the Mage. If Métis could do something to help Wildlands foxes …

  A howl rose over the Bishar. Amarog had thrown back her head. Silence fell among the wolves.

  “Amarog the Wise, what is it?” demanded Farraclaw.

  The wolf shaman whimpered in lament. “I feel it in my whiskers. I feel it in my bones. King Birronclaw Valiant-Oolf has let out his final breath. He walks in shadow, but never alone. Gone to the land of our ancestors, where he will hunt and run with the Bishar forever.”

  The queen gave out a long sigh. “Then he may rest at last.”

  Amarog dipped her head. “He is at peace, My Queen.” She shifted her gaze to Farraclaw. “My prince, you have returned from fire and ice. You have faced dangers and overcome them. You are ready.”

  Farraclaw’s ears swiveled forward. “I could not have done it without Isla,” he said. “Nor Lop, who always gave good counsel and ran the fastest when it was most needed. He did us proud. Lopclaw, I should say. For if ever a wolf showed loyalty to our Bishar, it is he.”

  Lop’s tail wagged at this rare praise. The other wolves looked at him with new respect.

  Amarog spoke to the attentive wolves. “As the eldest son of King Birronclaw Valiant-Oolf and Queen Sableclaw Valiant-Jowl, Prince Farraclaw Valiant-Jowl is the natural heir to the Bishar of Claw. The ancestors have judged him fit for leadership.” She turned to Farraclaw. “Will you accept their verdict, my prince?”

  The queen padded to his side. She gave him a reassuring nod. Her tail rose behind her in a small wag. “Son, it is your time.” An ease had entered her movements. Perhaps the mad king’s death had finally brought her some relief.

  Farraclaw’s whiskers quivered. He didn’t seem prepared for the speed of this news: his fa’s death and what it meant for him. But his voice was calm as he spoke. “I accept the role gratefully.” He turned to the shaman with a nod. “I consent to the verdict of our ancestors, Amarog the Wise.”

  The wolves let out a great roar.

  Farraclaw threw back his head. “The king is dead!” he howled.

  The Bishar howled in reply. “Long live the king! Long live King Farraclaw Valiant-Jowl!”

  The moon had shrunk to a sliver of white and swelled into a lidless yellow eye. With the start of the melt, Fang’s defeat, and Farraclaw’s rule, a lightness had visited the Bishar. I had lived among the wolves since Farraclaw became king. During the day, I played with the pups, slimmering or karakking for them. Already they stood over me, though they ran on clumsy paws. At night, I rested at Farraclaw’s side, or watched while the wolves went hunting.

  Farraclaw’s rule coincided with the first bloom over the Bishar. Seed cones appeared in the spruce trees. The snow began to thaw, revealing patches of damp grass. Tiny pink flowers dotted the tundra. A sweet smell hung in the cool air and a new sound awakened, the buzzing of insects.

  I padded through the Bishar, digging out earthworms where soil was revealed between the snow. This amused the wolves. “Still hungry?” teased Lyrinclaw, watching me gulp down a long pink worm. “Isn’t freshly caught bison enough for you?” She batted me lightly and I nipped her on the leg. She gave me a nudge. “Strange creatures, foxes,” she said affectionately.

  Métis recovered slowly. Most of the time the old fox slept in a hollowed tree trunk lined with moss. He would scowl when I approached, shunning my company. Still, I visited daily, feeding him torn up chunks of bison caught by the wolves. Grudgingly, he let me help him to the stream, where he drank slowly.

  Pleaching with the wolf had wrecked his maa. The foxcraft that had followed had further weakened him. I could see it in his weary limbs. How long would the Black Fox last? Yet his green eyes sparkled. Unlike the wolf, whose gerra had rotted before his death, Métis was still sharp.

  He huddled by the bank of the stream, little more than fur and bones. His gaze trailed over the patchy snow. “The gloaming is coming,” he said. “We must leave.”

  I looked at him doubtfully. He could hardly stand. “Not until you’re stronger. You’ll never make it over the tundra. It’s a long way to the Raging River from here. And you … You’re not well.”

  He glared at me. “Don’t presume to speak to me of my health.” He jutted out his muzzle like a stubborn cub. Still, the truth of my words must have reached him. With a wince, he rose to his paws and limped back to the hollowed-out tree. “The gloaming won’t wait for us.”

  I knew he was determined to reach the Elders. But I wondered what help this old fox was really able to provide.

  “It isn’t just about me,” he spat.

  My ears flipped back. He had a spooky ability to guess my thoughts.

  “Don’t you care about anything but your own comfort?” he added cruelly. “Have you lived among the wolves so long that you’ve forgotten what you are?”

  “I promised I’d help you, and I will,” I said stiffly. “You don’t need to insult me. I was only thinking about you.”

  “Rubbish. You were avoiding what must be done.” He drew his long tail around him. “What happens to the Elders affects all foxes,” he said, echoing what Siffrin had said back in the Great Snarl. “The White Fox’s first rise was thwarted by the Elders, a group of foxes of exceptional skill and dexterity. Among them, the Black Fox took the lead, as master of all arts. And so the tradition has passed through generations.”

  I ran my claws across a thin patch of snow, revealing new grass. “Jana said that the White Fox isn’t a real fox, not even a cub of Canista.”

  It is not alive—not in the sense that matters.

  “That is true,” said Métis. “The White Fox cannot make claim to our soil. Not alone.”

  My ears pricked. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean,” said Métis through gritted teeth, “is that someone must be helping it. Someone with more ambition than sense.”

  Suddenly, I understood. “The Mage.”

  Métis wrinkled his muzzle. “That is what he calls himself now. Keeveny of the western Wildlands. He is leeching maa in his efforts to raise the White Fox, offering himself as its link to our world. He calls it skree-maa but it’s really tu-maa-sharm—a reversal of all that is intended by the foxcraft, all that is good. He thinks he can control that thing as a means to untold power. He will fall victim to its quest to feed and grow. Keeveny always was a fool.”

  My thoughts snapped back to the yellow haze that had risen over the Darklands. I pictured the den of the Wildlands’ skulk, trampled and smoldering after the Taken attacked. They’d killed the old foxes. They’d killed Mox.

  My ears pointed out at the sides. So much bloodshed …

  And another image—Pirie. Only then did I realize I had pushed him away. I had fought to forget him, to erase him from my heart. Now his face floated in my mind’s eye.

  My tail drooped. Métis was right. In the Snowlands, so far from the Snarl and dangers of the Wildlands, I could almost pretend there was nothing wrong.

  “When do you want us to leave?” I said at last.

  Métis didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

  * * *

  I passed a group of warriors on my way to see Farraclaw. They were huddled around Rattisclaw and Thistleclaw, who were sparring at the center of the circle.

  “Isla, come and watch!” called Norralclaw.

  I paused as the wolves yelped, cheering on one side or another. Lop padded behind them and lay down on his side, grooming his forepaws and watching from a distance.

  He was still the under-wolf.

  A part of me had hoped that the trip would have changed that. At least the others didn’
t torment him anymore—not since Farraclaw had thanked him before the whole Bishar. Some, like Cattisclaw, made a point of calling him Lopclaw.

  The floppy-eared wolf greeted me warmly, his tail wagging. We watched the mock battle, catching glimpses of action between the other wolves. Thistleclaw appeared to be winning, using her superior strength and speed. Briarclaw raised her voice, urging Thistleclaw on. “Quickly! Go for his flank!”

  A moment later and it was over. Thistleclaw pounced at Rattisclaw and pinned him to the ground.

  “Is something wrong?” Lop had turned to look at me. “Aren’t you happy here, Isla?”

  I kept staring ahead. Rattisclaw and Thistleclaw exchanged bows. Thistleclaw trod a short victory loop for the other wolves, who yapped and cheered. Rattisclaw started grooming his coat.

  “My brother is still missing.”

  Lop sighed. “And this isn’t your home.”

  “No …” But what was? My earliest days in the Graylands seemed a lifetime ago. My family weren’t there anymore … “I have to go back to the Elders with Métis.”

  Lop rose to his paws. “Are you on your way to Farraclaw? I’ll walk with you.”

  I glanced at him gratefully. The floppy-eared wolf always knew the right thing to do.

  As we walked side by side through the territory, I looked across the Bishar’s lands for the final time. The view was arresting. Pink flowers were popping open in every patch of damp grass between the melting snow, though further south, in Storm Valley, the thaw hadn’t arrived. High overhead, flocks of white birds flew in formation.

  We walked in silence. We both knew where Farraclaw would be. The wolf king’s powerful musk guided our journey uphill to the base of the large black rocks.

  Lop stopped at the first rock. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  I touched his nose with my own before clambering up the rocks.

  Farraclaw was standing at the peak, looking out over his Bishar. He tilted his muzzle as I approached and waited patiently until I was standing before him. The wind blew against his silvery ruff. His eyes shone like the moon. Power rose off him as waves of amber light.

  He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “You’re leaving.” He had seen it in my face.

  “We must reach the Elder Rock by the Eve of Maha—what we call the gloaming.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Does Métis have enough maha for the journey? You know the lowlands are rugged and cold. Even now, a blizzard can race over the mountains. Winds get trapped in the Storm Valley. It is no place for an ailing fox.”

  “I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “Or how we’ll cross the Raging River.”

  Farraclaw spoke solemnly. “When I was captured in the dungeon of Fang, I could think of no way to escape. I was surrounded by enemies, far from home … Not for the first time.” He peered over my shoulder and I remembered how I’d first seen him, trapped in the beast dens. “I reached out to Noble King Serrenclaw. He told me not to fear the dark—that the shadows were my friends. He told me help was coming.” Farraclaw turned back to me. “Those who have passed do not forget. They watch over us.”

  I padded toward him and he rested his head against my shoulder.

  “Look across the tundra,” he said. “Do you see the narrow path between the birch?”

  I followed his gaze, spying the pale-barked trees. They sat in the shadows of a curved hill, still banked in snow. They were almost invisible against the backdrop of white.

  “Follow the path between the birch. Where the trees meet the river, there are stepping stones. Tread lightly, and they will take you to the far bank in safety.”

  I looked up at him. I didn’t want to ask but the words tumbled out of my mouth. “Won’t you come with us? The White Fox is rising. He’ll enslave free foxes and ruin our lands.” A note of desperation had crept into my voice. I could feel my ears pointing out at the sides. “You said there was nothing you wouldn’t do to help me.”

  Farraclaw raised his head. He stared over the tundra, refusing to meet my eye. “I would do anything, you know that … even for Métis. Despite his trick with my fa, he saved our Bishar from bloody defeat. But do not ask me to desert my realms on the Eve of Maha. It is the night that we howl to our ancestors. No wolf may leave the Bishar. As dawn breaks on the longest day, we will make our way to the edge of the Taku Grounds. As twilight falls we will start our lament. I have a duty to my kin. It is tradition. It is etched in the land.” His voice was almost a whisper. “I am sorry.”

  There was nothing I could do. I followed him down the black stones where Lop was waiting. Together, the three of us padded through the Bishar. The day was drawing to a close. It was time to say goodbye.

  The sun sank over the Bishar of Fang. I cocked my head, picturing the Ice Razors and the faraway land of burning ponds. Métis padded to my side. We had both traveled a long way to reach the Snowlands. It was hard to believe we were leaving.

  The entire Bishar had arrived to wish us well. They gathered around us, tails wagging excitedly. The wolves were careful to avoid touching Métis, not sure what to make of the scowling fox. They shuffled between us and bounded about, licking me on the nose and shunting me gently with low growls. Even Amarog was there, though she stood at a distance from the others, gazing toward the sunset.

  Farraclaw raised his voice. “As you all know by now, Isla is leaving us, and taking Elder Fox Métis with her. The arrival of foxes to our Bishar has heralded much change.” His eyes moved from me to Métis. “Not all change is bad.”

  Cattisclaw dipped her head and gave him a meaningful look. He blinked back at her. I wondered how long it would be until she was queen.

  “Endings and beginnings,” murmured Amarog. “You speak sagely, Sire. Change is not to be feared. As there is darkness, there is light.”

  Cattisclaw nudged me with her muzzle. “I’ll miss you, Isla. You have taught us much about your kind.”

  The pups jumped onto me, weighing me down with their large paws. “Don’t go!” whined Jaspin.

  “Stay a little longer,” begged Dorrel.

  “I can’t,” I said sadly. “I made a promise to Métis, and to my brother, Pirie. It is time to honor it.”

  “Do you hear that? She speaks of honor,” said Rattisclaw, his tail wagging with gentle amusement. “Pups of Canista aren’t so different after all.”

  The last to press between the throng were Lop and Farraclaw. The floppy-eared wolf licked my whiskers gently. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  “What for?” He had done so much for me and Métis. I should have been thanking him.

  Lop drew back, his tail low. “I’ll miss you.”

  Farraclaw touched my nose with his broad snout. “Go safely, Isla. We are with you in spirit. I will look to Queen Canista’s Lights and think of you. May you defeat your enemies and find your brother.”

  My mouth was dry. I wanted to beg him to come with us.

  Métis glanced at me, then turned to Farraclaw. “I wronged you by pleaching with your fa, yet you have forgiven me. I hope in some small way I was able to make amends.” He tilted his head. “You’re a fine king,” he added with disarming warmth.

  “Even if I am a wolf?” Farraclaw roared with amusement.

  The wolves howled and yelped as we turned and started over the tundra. The damp grass revealed by the melting snow was soft beneath our paws. I glanced back at the wolves. Lop had cocked his head and was staring at me sadly. Farraclaw dipped his muzzle with respect.

  My chest tightened. I would never see my friends again.

  I noticed Amarog. There was something about the shaman’s stance that unsettled me. While the other wolves still looked our way, Amarog stared toward the White Mountains. I followed her gaze. Low clouds were drifting over the foothills. What did it mean?

  A chill ran through me.

  “Foxling, are you coming?” Métis called. I was surprised to see how far he’d gone, even at his hobbling rate. I wrenched my gaze from the
wolves and followed. They yipped and howled as we hurried over the damp grass, but I didn’t look back again.

  * * *

  We picked our way downhill on a rutted path. We did our best to avoid the large clumps of snow that still hung on the soil. Long frozen, they had taken on a dirty sheen.

  “The birch trees are far south, toward the bank of the river.”

  Métis grunted. He was panting heavily. He shuffled as he moved, barely raising his paws.

  The sun brushed the Bishar of Fang. Great billows of pink light drifted across the Snowlands. Shimmers of green and blue lit the darkening sky. Beyond them, endless stars winked down on us. A murmur rose from the earth, reminding me of malinta’s beat. Was it the gloaming calling to us—what wolves called the Eve of Maha?

  Métis had stopped up ahead. His chest was heaving.

  “Do you need maa?” I asked carefully. I felt uneasy about sharing my life source, but I doubted he would make it to the Wildlands without help.

  “Keep it,” he said stiffly. “You haven’t enough to spare.” He lowered himself onto his belly, wrapping his tail around him. “I just need to rest a moment.”

  I ran my tongue over my muzzle. “I promised to get you back to the Wildlands.”

  Métis cursed, dragging himself up. “I said I don’t need it!”

  Stubborn old fox.

  He shot me a dark look.

  I watched as he wound between the patchy piles of snow. I had to admire his determination. I followed a few steps behind him. The grass squelched beneath my paws. My legs were tired from tensing to spring downhill. Peering ahead, I thought I caught a glimpse of the distant birch trees. I picked up my pace, hopping past Métis. As long as I kept sight of the trees, we would be all right.

  Still …

  I would have felt better if the wolves had joined us. If only Farraclaw was here, or even Lop. Where we scarcely dared to tread, they ran with confidence. Wolves were so bold, so sure of their power.