A Mystery of Wolves

by Isobelle Carmody

  “I am sorry that I trespassed,” Little Fur said. “I did not know it was forbidden to walk here. A wolf led me here, but—”

  “A wolf.” The creature’s white face pulled into a snarl, and her eyes went black as obsidian.

  “Please,” Little Fur said, struggling to keep her voice steady and strong. “He has not dwelt in these mountains for many seasons. He has been a captive of the humans.”

  “He led you here? Why?” the fjord spirit demanded.

  “I seek the wolf pack that lives in this valley.”

  “There is no wolf pack here,” she said. The darkness bled from her eyes, leaving them ice gray, cloud gray, wolf pelt gray.

  “Please, Lady, do you know where they have gone?” Little Fur asked urgently. “I must find them, for I need their help.”

  “Wolves are faithless, and the one who led you here has brought you to your end.”

  “Do not harm her, Sjoerven,” came Graysong’s voice.

  The old wolf had come back onto the ice. The fjord spirit looked at him. Little Fur saw a flash of violet joy in the gray of her eyes, then black rage. “If you care for her, Graysong, it will give me happiness to kill her.”

  “Do you hate me, then?”

  “You left me!” A flare of anguish bleached the black from her eyes.

  “I was driven out.”

  “Balidor was too young. But you let him win his challenge because he was your son. After you went, the pack left, too, though they had been here since the end of the last age.”

  “Why did they leave, Sjoerven? They would not have done so without the blessing of the fjord spirit.”

  “Balidor did not want my blessing,” she said. “He asked a question and I visioned for him. Then he asked another question and I answered that. He left, then returned to ask a third question. When he left once again, he took the pack with him.”

  “What did he ask? What did you see?” Graysong asked.

  “You know that none may know the question or vision of another,” the fjord spirit answered.

  “Then vision for me. Where is my son? Is he dead?”

  “It would be better if he were,” Sjoerven said. “But I cannot answer your question, for my mirror was taken.”

  “Taken! Who would dare?”

  She looked at him. “Your son.”

  “Not possible,” Graysong said, but suddenly he sounded old and weary.

  “Your weakness allowed your son to steal from me, and so now I will steal from you.” She turned again to Little Fur and flung out a slender hand.

  There was a brittle cracking sound. Little Fur saw that the ice under her feet was so thin now that water seeped through it.

  “I do not understand.” The fjord spirit’s face was haggard and beautiful and confounded. “The water will not obey me.”

  She glided closer, the ice melting away before her. Her eyes fell to Little Fur’s chest, and to the green stone that hung there. “That!” she cried. “That protects her.”

  “It is not magic,” Little Fur said, lifting it up.

  “It belonged to one whom these waters were forbidden to harm,” said the fjord spirit. She was so close now that Little Fur could see the sparkle of frost caught in her long indigo lashes.

  “It belonged to my mother,” whispered Little Fur.

  “Mother—” Sjoerven’s eyes widened, and storm blue became violet. “Then you are the one she carried inside her! The child of the elf warrior and the troll princess.”

  Little Fur felt dizzy. “You knew my parents?”

  “Yes,” said Sjoerven. “I was a sprite in a tiny streamlet that ran into a moat surrounding a castle. There an elf warrior and a troll princess were imprisoned by a powerful she-wizard.”

  “Why?” Little Fur asked.

  “They did not know, in the beginning. They knew little except mutual hatred, for each thought the other was in league with the she-wizard. But time passed, and eventually their long imprisonment and their alliance against the wizard caused the hatred between them to die. It must have died, for the troll princess soon carried the child of the elf warrior. Only then did the she-wizard tell them they had given her what she desired: a child in whom elf and troll blood mingled.

  “The elf warrior swore that their enemy would not have their child,” Sjoerven explained. “But before he could do anything, the land cracked open and the sea gushed inland, for the age of magic was ending. The ocean swallowed my stream and flooded over the castle, its power breaking the imprisonment spell at long last. But elf and troll remained trapped in a submerged chamber of the tower.

  “The elf worked a mighty enchantment to hold back the sea. Then he cracked open the earth and bade the troll princess to escape, though he could not follow her into the earth. She left, for the sake of their unborn child. And the elf warrior was able to seal off her escape, but it took the last of his strength.

  “The ocean flowed into the castle. I tried to save him, but the water was strong and I was yet weak. Eventually, I was able to bring him to the bank…too late, for he joined the world’s dream. In his last moments, he gave me a mirror containing all that remained of his magic. And though magic was by then thin, I still grew to fill the fjord. Thus I became the fjord spirit. Now I am nothing, for the mirror is gone.”

  “I will find my son and return your mirror, Sjoerven,” Graysong swore.

  The fjord spirit looked at him, her eyes gone to silver. Without a word, she sank into the frigid black water. There was a crunching sound, and with a shudder, the ice thickened under Little Fur’s feet and became solid—save for the jagged hole where the fjord spirit had first emerged.

  They left the frozen fjord and climbed into a higher valley to rest and eat some pieces of honeycomb—all the food that Little Fur had left in her pouch.

  “Did you let your son win the challenge?” Little Fur asked. It was easier to think about the wolves than to try to understand all that the fjord spirit had said of her parents and the she-wizard.

  “I do not know,” Graysong said. “Sjoerven was right in saying that Balidor was too young to lead. But he had such strength and such a fierce, pure desire to serve the earth spirit.” He sighed.

  “What do you think he asked the fjord spirit?”

  “He would have asked how to fight the enemies of the earth spirit. He had long felt that I was holding the pack to a passive course. He wanted the Mystery to become an order of mystic warriors.”

  “That is why he challenged for leadership of the pack,” Little Fur guessed. “But why would he take Sjoerven’s mirror?”

  “Not for the visions it would give.” Graysong answered. “It would obey none but Sjoerven.”

  “But why did he leave? And where did he go?”

  “I do not know, but you told me that the vulture that came to you while I hunted had said the cat had been captured by a human?”

  “She said it might not be a human,” Little Fur explained.

  “It is only that returning to the mountains has reminded me of a story my grandsire told me of a human who built a keep in the mountains and filled it with its artifacts from the lost ages of the world,” said Graysong.

  “I don’t understand,” Little Fur said.

  “The keep exists. I saw it when I was a pup. It was half ruined, and only a single old human dwelt there. It did not hunt or do any harm to beasts, but perhaps it has joined the world’s dream and other humans now live there. Hunters.”

  “Why would they come to live in a ruin in the high mountains, and what does that have to do with the Mystery?” Little Fur said.

  “The story my grandsire told was of a wolf who asked Sjoerven if there was any danger to the wolves in the keep. She is said to have answered that a terrible power would one day be born there, and that only a wolf would be able to prevent its destroying the earth spirit.”

  Little Fur was aghast. The Sett Owl had said nothing of this. “Do you think Sjoerven saw that this power had been born? Maybe that is why your son
went there?”

  “I do not know, but I think we must go to the keep. It is far if we travel by smooth paths, but if you can climb, there is a swifter way.”

  “I can climb,” Little Fur said stoutly.

  The day grew colder and grayer as they ascended the steep flank of the mountain. Night came and the moon rose, blue and remote, as they climbed ever higher. The slope was now so steep that Little Fur did not dare to look down until they came to a ledge they could walk along. They drank some water, and only then did Little Fur look back over the flat whiteness of the frozen fjord far below. There was no sign of the strange spirit. They had followed the ledge path until it curved into another pass between two peaks. It sloped up, and they had to go on blindly, but at the top of the rise, Little Fur stopped to stare.

  The path sloped down again, entering a small, deep valley surrounded by high cliffs so steep that no snow adhered to them. A human settlement crawled up the cliffs, its many levels connected by ledge paths or stone bridges or long flights of steps cut into the cliffs.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wolf Keep

  Whatever Little Fur had imagined when Graysong had spoken of a human keep in the mountains, it was not this!

  “It did not seem so high or large when I was a cub,” the wolf said.

  “There is no false light,” Little Fur said.

  Before they could go more than a few steps, two wolves appeared from behind a snow-topped boulder just ahead.

  “Scouts,” Graysong murmured.

  The wolves loped up to where he and Little Fur stood. They were both large and strong, with ferocious eyes and lustrous fur, but a queer, almost-sick smell came from them.

  “I am Sleet,” said the she-wolf. She looked at Graysong. “I know who you are, Old Wolf. You should not have come back.”

  “I do not come to challenge or to rejoin the pack. I need to see my son,” Graysong said courteously. “It is permitted by pack law.”

  “You will see him,” said Sleet, a glimmer of malice in her gray eyes. “Come.” She looked at Little Fur with an interest that made Little Fur’s ears itch.

  Graysong and Little Fur followed Sleet down the path. The silent he-wolf brought up the rear. Little Fur felt like a prisoner, and she was troubled by the wolves’ smell. But most of all she was puzzled at the lack of surprise shown by the two wolves at coming upon their old king. Indeed, they had acted as if they were expecting him.

  “You lead us to the human keep,” Graysong said suddenly.

  “Fear not, Old Wolf,” answered Sleet, glancing back over her shoulder. “It is the wolf keep now.”

  “Why did the pack abandon its ancient territory on the banks of the fjord?” Graysong asked slowly.

  Little Fur could see that Sleet did not intend to answer, but the other wolf’s scent told her that he was having trouble refusing Graysong. He was older than Sleet, and Little Fur wondered if he remembered when Graysong had been king. At last, he said gruffly, “King Balidor said that we will better fulfill the true purpose of the Mystery here.”

  “Does King Balidor believe that the purpose of wolves can be found in the dwellings of humans, Nightwhisper?” Graysong asked.

  Before Nightwhisper could reply, Sleet said coldly, “We have reclaimed this territory from the humans just as we will wrest the world and this age from them.”

  “An age is not a territory to be lost or claimed,” Graysong said.

  “I have heard it told that you were a king of subtle thought and many words, Old Wolf,” Sleet said. “But now Balidor leads us, and he does not use words to strangle courage.”

  Nothing more was said for some time. They were close enough to the wide gate in the wall to see a tumbledown sprawl of ruins in a cobbled yard. They seemed much older than the greater part of the keep. Where the cobbles showed through the snow, they were old and cracked. It was not until they passed into the yard that Little Fur saw that most of the keep had been cut out of and into the stone cliff. The ruined buildings, on the other hand, had been made of wood and stone and stood away from the cliff.

  “The earth spirit is strong here,” Graysong observed softly. “But it does not flow easily. Its currents flow in both directions.”

  Many of the wolves moving across the yard had stopped to stare at Graysong, but none came forward to greet him. Perhaps that was the way of the pack, but Little Fur’s unease increased, for she could not smell surprise or shock on any of them. And clearly, the wolves were not captives here.

  Graysong nudged her. Sleet had crossed the yard and was mounting a wide set of stone steps leading to an arch—the entrance to the keep. The she-wolf looked back impatiently.

  Little Fur was relieved to find the steps, like most of the keep, were formed of living stone, through which earth magic could flow. What would Sleet have done if earth magic had not flowed through them and Little Fur had refused to follow her? She was trying to think how to explain her need to remain in contact with earth magic when a black she-wolf emerged from the shadows beyond the arch.

  “Greetings, Graysong,” she said courteously. “It is good to see you. I had heard that you were the captive of humans.”

  “Greetings, Shadow. I escaped from the humans with the help of my companion here. It is out of gratitude that I bring her to the Mystery. It took me longer to find it than I had expected.”

  Instead of answering his unspoken question, the black wolf looked at Little Fur, her yellow eyes glowing with interest. “Welcome, Little Fur. The presence of a creature of the last age is welcome.”

  “Greetings, Shadow,” Little Fur managed to say, astonished that the wolf knew her name.

  “The king of the Mystery has bidden me welcome you to the wolf keep. I will show you to a place where you may refresh yourself and rest. Tonight there will be a feast. Have no fear of losing touch with the flow of earth magic, for most of the keep is made from living rock.” She turned to Graysong. “Will you enter, Old Wolf?”

  “I wish to see my son,” Graysong said.

  “Of course,” Shadow said smoothly. “Nightwhisper will take you to a den where you can rest until the king is free to come to you.”

  Little Fur did not want to be separated from Graysong, but he appeared content for them to be parted, so she bade him farewell before he followed Nightwhisper away.

  “Come,” said Shadow. She went to a set of steps cut so cunningly sideways into the stone cliff that they were almost invisible. Little Fur followed warily until she had confirmed that there was no danger of her losing touch with the flow of earth magic.

  The she-wolf had gone some way ahead before noticing that Little Fur had fallen behind. She waited until Little Fur caught up, then walked more slowly, speaking enthusiastically of the great feast being prepared. Little Fur asked its purpose.

  “It is to welcome you, of course,” Shadow answered.

  Little Fur’s mouth fell open in complete astonishment. “Me? But…why?”

  Shadow did not answer. Perhaps she had not heard, for the loud roar of rushing water filled the air. In a moment, they had reached the top of the steps, which led to a stone bridge spanning a falling cataract of water. As they crossed, it became warm.

  “Hot springwater is piped through most of the keep,” Shadow said. “Humans like their dens hot.”

  “What happened to the human that used to live here?” Little Fur asked.

  “It died,” Shadow said indifferently.

  On the other side of the bridge was another long stair leading up. This brought them to a ledge path that soon became a tunnel through the cliff. Windows were open all along one side of the tunnel, allowing air and light in. Little Fur gazed out at the snowcapped mountains. She had never been so high. This was how birds saw the world!

  Shadow stopped at the entrance to a small chamber, inviting Little Fur to enter. She did so, startled by how warm it was.

  As if in answer, Shadow pointed to a small bathing pool, from which steam rose. She bade Little Fur rest, promising to r
eturn when it was time for the feast. But Little Fur followed the she-wolf back out into the tunnel to ask how the wolves had known so much about her. The black wolf answered calmly that Balidor had told them.

  Again she turned to leave, but Little Fur spoke. “Am I permitted to go out of this chamber?” she asked.

  “I will take you anywhere you wish,” the black wolf said smoothly. “But why not rest? King Balidor will show you everything this evening, and you smell of weariness and long traveling.”

  Little Fur nodded, still not sure if she was a guest or a prisoner. But it was true that she was weary. She thanked the black wolf and went back to the chamber, removed her cloak, pouch and water bottles and disentangled Gem from her hair. She set the little owlet on a bed of pine needles that had been prepared, and the owlet immediately began rearranging it. Little Fur took off the rest of her clothes and her necklet and climbed into the steaming water. It was surprisingly pleasant, and as she cleaned herself, her thoughts drifted to what Sjoerven had said about her mother and father. How queer to think they had both been captives of a she-wizard! And what had the wizard wanted with a child with elf and troll blood mingled?

  Sjoerven had said her parents had begun by hating one another but had become allies. Yet they must have become more than allies to make her. At least for some moments, they must have loved one another. Was it love of the troll princess, then, that had made her father sacrifice himself to save her, or concern for the half-elf child she carried?

  And what of her and her mother? The troll princess would have been able to use troll passages and tunnels to get to safety. Little Fur could almost imagine her flight, but where had she run? And what had happened to her, that Little Fur had ended up alone in the wilderness with a green stone and an elf cloak?

  Not that she had truly been alone. She felt a pang of longing for the seven trees that had been mother and father to her. And then she thought of Ginger and realized with a shock that she had forgotten about him.