Wolf-Speaker Page 4

  She closed her eyes, listening for animals. In the pits she heard only a few rats and mice. Every other animal had fled the zone of destruction, and its fringes were loud with battles fought over every bit of food. In the lake she heard death. Filth lay in the water: garbage from the town and fort, waste dirt from the mines. The fish gasped for air in the lake’s northern waters. Their kinfolk in cleaner water went hungry as food sources died.

  Brokefang stuck his cold nose into the girl’s ear. I told you, he said.

  “Those are mines,” Numair commented, his voice low. He unhooked his spyglass from his belt, opened it, and put it to his eye. “But what are they for? The opal mines around here were emptied nearly half a century ago.”

  “What are opals?” asked Daine.

  “They are used in magic, like other gemstones. Mages will do anything to get opals, particularly black opals.”

  Daine was puzzled. Since her arrival in Tortall she had seen all kinds of precious stones, but not those. “What do they look like?”

  Numair lifted a chain that lay around his neck, under his shirt. From it hung a single oval gem that shimmered with blue, green, orange, and gold fires. “Opals are power stones. Black ones like this are the best. They store magic, or you may use the stone to increase the strength of a spell. I saved for years to purchase this. Emperor Ozorne has a collar made of them—six rows, threaded on gold wire. He has a mine somewhere, but he guards the location even more carefully than he guards his power.” He glared at the mines. “Surely we would know if opal dirt were found here once more. Dunlath is a Tortallan fief.”

  The ground shook last fall, Brokefang said. See the raw earth on the mountains, behind the fort? Cliffs fell there. In spring, when the pups were new and still blind, a mage came and exploded holes where the pits are now.

  “Let us speculate,” Numair said when Daine finished translating. “Something of value—opal dirt, for example, or even gold—was seen in the fallen cliffs, after the earthquake. The lord of Dunlath sent for a mage with blasting expertise, doubtless a war mage, on the chance he would uncover more—and he did. It may be the same mage who destroyed the Ninth Riders. But who buys what is taken from the land? It isn’t the king, or he would have told us.”

  Daine looked back at the mines. The ogre who had fallen was on his feet again, blue liquid—his blood—coursing down his back in stripes. “I don’t care if they are ogres,” she said quietly. “That’s slavery down there, and we aren’t a slave country.”

  “It appears they are expanding, too.” Numair pointed over Daine’s shoulder. Here, in a direction she had not looked before, humans and ogres with axes were hard at work, cutting down trees and dragging the stumps from the ground.

  Now you see why we need you, Brokefang said, baring his teeth as he watched the tree cutting. This must stop. It will stop. Soon there will be no game, and everyone here will starve, even the ones who ordered this.

  “We need to learn more,” Numair replied. “We need to speak with those in charge, in the fief village and the castle. Then I want to get word to King Jonathan. Something is badly amiss.” He inched back into the cover of the trees, Daine, Fleetfoot, and Short Snout following.

  Realizing Brokefang had not come with them, Daine looked back. The chief wolf stood on the cliff, his fur bristling, his ears forward and his tail up as he growled defiance at the ruin below.

  On their return to the campsite, Daine let the others go ahead as she took her crossbow and went hunting. She was in luck, finding and bagging two plump rabbits soon after leaving the trail.

  Human friends often exclaimed to see her hunt. They seemed to think, because she shared a bond with animals, that she ought to go meatless.

  “That’s fair daft,” she had said when Princess Kalasin mentioned it. “Some of my best friends are hunters. I’m a hunter. You eat what you’re made to eat. I just make sure I don’t use my power to bring game to me, and I stop listening for animal voices with my magic. I close it all off.”

  “You can do that?” Kally had asked, eyes wide.

  “I must,” Daine had replied. “Otherwise my hunting would be—dirty. Vile. When I go, I hunt like any other two-legger, looking for tracks and following trails. And I’ll tell you something else. I kill fast and clean, so my game doesn’t suffer. You know I can, too. I almost never miss a shot.”

  “I suppose, if that’s how you do it, it’s all right,” the girl had said, though she still looked puzzled.

  Daine had snorted. “Fairer than them that kill an animal for its horns or skin, so they can tack it on their wall. I hunt to eat, and only to eat.”

  When she reached the camp, it was nearly dark. The pack had gone, leaving Russet, Numair, and Kitten with the pups and horses. Once Daine appeared, Russet left to hunt for himself. Numair, who had started a pot of rice, smiled when he saw her, but he looked preoccupied. From experience she knew it did no good to talk when something was on his mind, so she let him be.

  Once her rabbits were cleaned, spitted, and cooking, she groomed the horses and Cloud, oiled rough patches in Kittens’s hide, and wrestled with the pups. She ate quickly when supper was done, and cleaned up without bothering Numair. He wandered to the opposite side of the pond, where he stretched out on the ground and lay staring at the trees overhead.

  Russet came back, grinning. All that was left of a pheasant who had not seen him in the brush was a handful of bright feathers in his fur. He panted as Daine pulled them out, then licked her face.

  “Would you help me do something?” Daine asked, and explained the badger’s lesson.

  It sounds interesting, the young wolf answered. What must I do?

  “Nothing,” the girl said. “I have to come into you.” Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and let it go. All around she heard familiar noises. Numair had gone to sleep. Cloud drowsed where she stood, dreaming of galloping along an endless plain. Kitten sorted through a collection of pebbles, muttering to herself. Daine closed out everything but Russet’s sounds: his powerful lungs taking air in and letting it go, the twitch of an ear, the pulse of his heart.

  She drew closer and closer until his thoughts crept into her mind. On the surface were simple things, like the shred of pheasant caught on a back tooth, the coolness of the packed earth under his body, his enjoyment of being with her. Below that was the powerful sense of Pack that was part of any wolf, the feeling of being one with a group where everything was shared.

  The change from her mind to his was gradual this time. It felt as if she were water sinking into earth, becoming part of him in slow bits. When he blinked, vision came in blacks, whites, and grays, and she knew she saw through his eyes. Her ears picked up the tiniest movement, from the scratch of Kittens’s claws on her pebbles to the grubbing of a mouse in the reeds. He inhaled, and a rich bouquet of odors came to her: the individual scents of everyone in the clearing, wet earth, pines, the fire, moss, traces of cooked rabbit and plants.

  He sniffed again, and caught a whiff of scent from the trench Daine and Numair used as a privy. The girl was amazed. She disliked that smell, and had dug the trench far from the clearing where they ate and slept on purpose. She certainly couldn’t detect it with her own nose. Not only could Russet smell it clearly, but he didn’t think the trench odor was bad—just interesting.

  Silly galloped over to leap on Russet’s back, and Daine was back within her own mind. “Thank you,” she told Russet in a whisper.

  Thank you, he replied, and trotted off to romp with the pups.

  She stretched, not quite comfortable yet in her skin. The change to her own senses was a letdown. As good as her ears were, they were not nearly as sharp as the wolf’s, and her nose was a poor substitute for his. While she was glad not to be able to smell the trench once more, there had been plenty of good scents available to Russet.

  “At least I see colors,” she told Kitten. “That’s something.”

  The pack returned with full bellies as she was banking the fire. They ha
d fed on a sheep that had strayed from its flock, reducing it to little more than a handful of well-gnawed bones.

  Daine frowned when she heard this. “But that’s one of the things that make two-leggers hunt you, when you eat their animals.”

  They will not find out, Brokefang said calmly. When you ran with the pack before, you warned us about human herds. We cannot stop eating them. They are slow, and soft, without hard feet or sharp horns to protect them. What we can do is hide signs of the kill. We sank what was left in a marsh, and we dragged leafy branches over the place where we killed, to hide the blood.

  Instead of reassuring her, his answer made her uneasy. Here was more unwolflike behavior, a result of the pack’s involvement with her. Where would it end? She couldn’t even say the change was only in Brokefang, because the rest of the pack helped him. She had to think of a way to protect them, or to change them back to normal beasts, before humans decided the Long Lake Pack was too unusual—too dangerous—to live.

  That plan would have to wait. The badger’s lesson had tired her again. She went to bed, and dreamed of men slaughtering wolves.

  In the morning Daine and Numair rode to the town of Fief Dunlath, leaving the wolves behind. Reaching the village at noon, they entered the stable yard of the town’s small, tidy inn. Hostlers came to take their horses. Dismounting from Cloud, Daine took the pack in which Kitten was hidden and slung it over her shoulder, then followed Numair indoors. They stood inside, blinking as their eyes adjusted from the sunny yard to the dark common room. In the back someone was yelling, “Master Parlan! We’ve guests!”

  The innkeeper came out and bowed to Numair. “Good day to you, sir. Ye require service?” he asked with a brisk mountain accent.

  “Yes, please. I’d like adjoining rooms for my student and me.”

  “Forgive me, mistress,” Parian said, bowing to Daine. “I dinna see ye.” He looked her over, then asked Numair, “Ye said—adjoinin’ rooms, sir?”

  “Yes,” Numair replied. “If there’s a connecting door, it must be locked.”

  The innkeeper bowed, but his eyes were on Daine. “Forgive me, sir—locked?”

  Daine blushed, and Numair looked down his nose at the man. “People have sordid minds, Master Parian.” Despite his travel-worn clothes, he spoke like a man used to the obedience of servants. “I would like my student to be spared idle gossip, if you please.”

  Parlan bowed low. “We’ve two very nice rooms, sir, overlooking the kitchen garden. Very quiet—not that we’ve much excitement in these parts.”

  “Excellent. We will take hot baths, as soon as you are able to manage, please,” A gold coin appeared in Numair’s hand and disappeared in Parlan’s. “And lunch, I think, after the baths,” added the mage.

  “Very good, sir,” the man said. “Follow me.” He led the way upstairs.

  Kitten wriggled in the pack, and chirped. “Hush,” Daine whispered as Parlan opened their rooms. “I’ll let you out in a moment.”

  The room was a small one, but clean and neatly kept, and the bath was all Daine could hope for after weeks of river and stream bathing. The food brought by the maid was plain and good. Daine felt renewed afterward, enough so that she took a short nap. She was awakened by a scratching noise. When she opened her eyes, the dragon was picking at the lock on the door between the two rooms.

  “Leave it be, Kit,” Daine ordered, yawning. “You’ve seen locks back home.”

  The young immortal sat on her haunches, stretching so that her eye was on a level with the keyhole, and gave a soft trill. The door swung open to reveal Numair in a clean shirt and breeches. He was holding a piece of paper.

  “Did I know she could do that?” he asked with a frown.

  “No more did I,” retorted Daine.

  Numair glared at the dragon, who was investigating his room as thoroughly as she had her own. “That door was locked for a reason,” he told her sternly. To Daine he added, “Though actually I do need to speak with you. We’ve been invited to dine tonight at the castle.”

  “Why?” the girl asked, rubbing her eyes.

  “It’s typical of nobles who live out of the way. A newcomer is worth some attention—it’s how they get news. I don’t suppose you packed a dress.”

  Since her arrival in Tortall, when her Rider friends had introduced her to breeches, she had worn skirts rarely, and always under protest. When the village seamstress showed her the only gown that would be ready in time, Daine balked. The dress was pink muslin, with lace at collar and cuffs—a lady’s garment, in a color she hated. She announced she would go in breeches or not at all.

  Numair, usually easygoing, sometimes showed an obstinate streak to rival Cloud’s. By the time their escort came, Daine wore lace-trimmed petticoats, leather shoes, and the pink dress under a wool cloak to ward off the nighttime chill. A maid had done up her stubborn curls, pinning them into a knot at the back of her neck. Kitten’s mood was no better than Daine’s: told she could not go with them, the dragon turned gray and hid under the bed.

  Their escort came after dark to guide them across the causeway to the island and its castle. Hostlers took charge of Spots and Cloud, and servants took their cloaks, all in well-trained silence. A footman led them across the entrance hall to a pair of half-open doors.

  Behind those doors a man was saying, “…know wolves like th’ back of m’hand. I tell ye, these have got to be werewolves or sommat from th’ Divine Realms. They don’t act as wolves should act! See this? An’ this? Laughin’ at me, that’s what they’re doin’!”

  “My lord, my ladies,” the footman said, breaking in, “your guests are here.” He bowed to Numair and Daine and ushered them in ahead of him. “I present Master Numair Salmalín, of Corus, and his student, called Daine.”

  They were in an elegant sitting room, being looked over by its occupants. The footman announced, “My lord Belden, master of Fief Dunlath. My lady Yolane of Dunlath, Lord Belden’s wife and heiress of Dunlath. Lady Maura of Dunlath, my lady’s sister.”

  Numair bowed; Daine attempted a curtsy. Yolane, in her thirties, and Maura, a girl of ten, were seated by the hearth fire. Though introduced as sisters, there was little resemblance between them. Yolane was beautiful, with ivory-and-rose skin, large brown eyes, a tumble of reddish brown curls, and a soft mouth. Her crimson silk gown hugged a trim body and narrow waist; deep falls of lace at her wrists drew the eye to long, elegant hands. Diamonds glittered around her neck and at her earlobes. Maura was painfully plain, a stocky child with straight brown hair, attired in a blue dress that fit badly.

  Lord Belden was of an age with his wife, a lean, bearded man who showed more interest in his wine-glass than in his guests. His brown hair and beard were clipped short. His clothing was equally businesslike, though his maroon brocade tunic and white silk shirt and hose were of the finest quality.

  Before the nobles stood a man in rough leather. He bristled with weapons, and held a pair of wolf traps. Yolane fanned herself, trying to disperse the aroma that came from the traps; Maura held her nose. The wolfhounds that sat or sprawled at the hunter’s feet rose when they saw Daine. Slowly they went to her, their wire-haired faces eager. She offered her hands for them to sniff.

  “Here!” barked the hunter. “Them ain’t ladies’ dogs! They’re fierce hunters, and no’t’ be cosseted!”

  Daine snickered as the hunters crowded around her, tails wagging.

  “Yes, you’re fine dogs,” she whispered, returning their welcome. “You’re lovely dogs, even if you do hunt wolves.”

  We try to hunt them, the chief of the wolf-hounds said. The man would like us to succeed, but how can we, when wolves do such strange things?

  “Tait, take those brutes away,” commanded Yolane. “This is a civilized gathering.”

  The huntsman stalked out, whistling to his dogs. They followed obediently, with an apology to Daine.

  As they went, they brushed past another man who entered, smiling wryly. He was broad-shouldered and handsome
, dressed neatly in a white shirt, brown silk tunic and hose, and polished boots. His brown-blond hair was clipped short over a clean and open face. Coming up behind Numair, he said, “I hope you forgive my—”

  Numair turned to look at him, and the stranger’s jaw dropped. His hazel eyes opened wide in shock. “Mithros, Mynoss, and Shakith,” he whispered.

  Daine frowned. Until now, the only one she’d ever heard use that particular oath was Numair himself.

  “Arram?” the man asked in a melodic voice. “Is that Arram Draper?”

  Numair gaped at him. “Tristan Staghorn? They told me you were still in Carthak, with Ozorne.”

  THREE

  FUGITIVES

  “Oh, Ozorne,” the newcomer scoffed. “No, I felt too—restricted, serving him. I’m my own man now—have been for a year.” He and Numair shook hands.

  “Tristan, you know our guest?” The lady rose from her chair and walked toward Numair, as graceful as a dancer.

  “Know him?” replied Tristan. “My lady, this is Master Numair Salmalín, once of the university at Carthak, now resident at the court of Tortall.”

  Yolane offered Numair a hand, which he kissed. “How wonderful to find such beauty in an out-of-the-way place,” he said gallantly. “Does King Jonathan know the finest jewel in Tortall does not adorn his court?”

  The lady smiled. “Only a man who lives at court could turn a compliment so well, Master Salmalín.”

  “But Tristan didn’t call you that,” Lord Belden said coolly. “He called you Arram something.”

  “I was known as Arram Draper in my boyhood,” explained Numair.

  Tristan grinned. “Oh, yes—you wanted a majestic, sorcerous name when you got Master status. Then you had to change it, when Ozorne ordered your arrest.”

  Yolane and Belden looked sharply at Numair. “Wanted by the emperor of Carthak?” the woman asked. “You must have done something serious.”