The Dog Master (28 page)

“Bellu! Bellu!” they called, and when she stood, giggling, they surrounded her, kissed her hands for luck.

Calli watched her friend accept the accolades with a sense of detachment. She had long coveted council mother but this was better—Mal was safe. Bellu was beaming, everyone was happy, but all that mattered was her child. Calli turned to see how Albi was taking it.

But Albi was gone.

*   *   *

The former council mother stalked away from the meeting with her mouth in a sour line. This would not stand, she could not let it stand, but at the moment she was stymied. Her sister! Renne! Her enemies would be made to pay for this.
Calli.
Albi seethed with hate for the woman who thought in mists and shadows. And her son, who spoke to her of his conspiracies but had thus far been too much the coward to do anything about either Calli or Urs—her son was so weak!

So intent was she on her rage, Albi did not even see Nix, Renne's husband, until she had nearly bumped into him. Albi looked up, startled—he was standing by Albi's family fire. What was he doing here?

“Hello, Albi. I came to speak to you,” Nix greeted. He was grinning, but it was a strange expression, somehow cold and mirthless.

“I am not wanting to speak to anyone at the moment,” Albi muttered. She went to push past him, and then gasped when she felt his rough hand on her arm.

“But I am wanting to speak to you,” Nix replied softly.

Albi went to pull her arm away, but Nix held it more tightly. She stared at him, alarmed.

“I am wanting to speak to you about the time you used your stick on my wife,” Nix continued.

“That is not … she was not your wife … this, you cannot…,” Albi stuttered.

“I was thinking I might beat you to death with my fists,” Nix said casually. “Do you believe I could do such a thing?”

Eyes wide, Albi nodded.

“But my wife asked me not to do so. So, to please her, I will not beat you to death with my fists. What I will do is tell you that if, at any time, you in any way displease my wife, if you insult her, if you take her food, if you treat her children poorly, if you even look at her with an unpleasant expression, I will beat you to death with a rock. See? Not my fists. A different thing. I will still be obeying my wife's wishes, but your skull will be smashed and your brains will run into the dirt.”

Albi's mouth tightened. He would not ever really do this, she realized. It was a threat intended to scare her. Well, he was misjudging her. She drew herself up.

“I will tell the hunt master of the threats you have made here today,” she hissed. “You have violated the way of the Kindred—”

She got no further. Nix lifted his hand and slapped her across the face with such force it blinded her. Staggering, Albi fell back. Her ears rang and her jaw felt as if it were broken. Stunned, she stared at him.

“I do not want you to speak unless I invite you to do so. And I am not wanting you to speak at the moment. Do you understand me?”

“No man,” Albi gasped, “may touch a woman except her husband or—” That was as far as she got. Nix slapped her again, and Albi cried out.

“I asked: Do you understand me? Otherwise I am not wanting you to speak at the moment. So, do you understand?” He lifted his hand up as if to deliver a third blow.

Albi nodded hastily, her eyes tearing from pain.

“You are correct. Normally a man must not touch another woman, but there is a new rule for when the ugly hyena strikes a man's wife with a stick. You see, I did not come here without first speaking to Urs. He told me I could beat you, but I was not to kill you. Not today. Not unless you insulted my wife, and then I could crush your head with a rock.” Nix smiled at her pleasantly. “I hope you remember this new rule, but if you forget, I will do you a favor and let you pick the rock I will use to open your skull. See the favor? I will let you pick the rock.”

*   *   *

A ripple of tension went through the pack, passing from wolf to wolf. Instantly, the large she-wolf, old now but still formidable, alerted to the social stress. She eased to her feet.

They were at the howling site, the place where the wolves gathered when they weren't out hunting. Some newly weaned cubs were lying at the she-wolf's feet—the entire pack would take shifts protecting them and ensuring they didn't wander off until they were old enough. Though their markings were unimportant to the she-wolf, one of the puppies, a female, was significantly larger than her siblings, and had a small white patch on her forehead.

Mate had died a few winters ago. The she-wolf had therefore stopped reproducing, but could still hunt and was still the largest of her peers, even if she was no longer the dominant female. When she lay curled up at night, memories of running with Mate came to mind, and often during the day she would sniff for his scent, expecting to find it on the air. They had been together for so long she often forgot that he was gone. When no sign of him came to her nose, she would remember why, and sometimes she would whimper almost silently, missing him.

This spring was unusual because there were two litters in the pack, which had seen its ranks thinned by disease after three cold summers with little to eat. There had been more luck the past winter, and so the dominant male had mated with more than one bitch. One of those mating females was the large she-wolf's direct descendant, her daughter from a litter five years ago, whose size nearly matched that of the she-wolf.

The she-wolf had discovered through successive litters that some of her offspring were simply too intimidated to go with her to accept meat from the man, while others accompanied her without concern.

Something else was unusual this year: her daughter's litter, when it was escorted to the howling site, was brought by a single parent, the male. The she-wolf's daughter was not with them. Her offspring smelled like their mother, but something had happened.

The she-wolf neither dwelled on the loss, nor mourned it. Her instinct, though, was to spend all of her time with her descendants, protecting them and caring for them as if she were their mother.

And now her inner sense told her something grave was about to occur. The mother of the other litter was a black wolf, not as large as the she-wolf but young and strong. Black Wolf was pacing back and forth nearby, her ears back, her tongue out. The black wolf was eyeing the pile of sleeping puppies at the she-wolf's feet—three males and the one large female.

This was why there was suddenly anxiety in the pack. Black Wolf saw this litter as competing with her own. She was the dominant bitch and had come to eliminate the competition.

The big she-wolf stood her ground and pulled her upper lips, revealing her teeth. Her low growl awoke the pups, who were confused when the old she-wolf, chest stiff and tail high, disciplined them, cowing the pups into shrinking down in humble submission instead of spreading out to play and explore. The she-wolf needed them to remain in a defensible group.

The black wolf growled, not backing down, circling, calculating.

Restraint soon broke among the pups. One of the males scampered away and the black wolf instantly streaked after him, head down as if pursuing a rodent. The old she-wolf ran straight at Black Wolf, cutting off the attack and slamming into Black Wolf with brutal impact and the two wolves went up on their back legs, swiping with their paws and slashing with their fangs. It was a vicious and savage fight. Biting and snarling and ripping at each other, they did not give ground.

The rest of the pack milled in confusion and distress.

Black Wolf was young and fast, the old she-wolf larger and more experienced. The black wolf yelped as the old she-wolf drew blood from an ear, and then, when the she-wolf managed to gain a crushing grip on the black wolf's throat, the conflict was suddenly over. The black wolf went limp and compliant.

The old she-wolf let the black wolf get up to flee, and one of the younger males of the pack actually lunged and bit the retreating female as she ran away.

For her part, the old she-wolf felt no compelling instinct to try and destroy the black female's litter.

The pups had already forgotten the fight and were playing joyously with one another, but the pack was confused. The old she-wolf, so long the dominant bitch, was apparently in that position once again, which felt wrong because she had not mated, nor had she smelled receptive to it during the winter.

The situation was so odd that, as if on signal, the adult wolves raised their noses and howled, the ululating cry traveling far on the wind. Astounded, the puppies sat and stared, and then tentatively they raised their own heads and added their tiny voices to the chorus.

 

THIRTY-THREE

Black Wolf did not attempt to harm the litter again. The she-wolf remained both dominant and vigilant, protecting them as they grew sleek and strong over the summer. The largest one, the female, was an especially powerful wolf. Running with them, teaching them and guiding them, the old she-wolf gradually forgot they were her daughter's litter, and not hers.

The she-wolf was hunting with the juveniles at summer's end. The younger wolves sprinted ahead, intoxicated by the scent of the reindeer they were chasing—the prey had taken a wound, somehow, and was bleeding slightly, the aroma of it filling the air so succulently they could taste it on their tongues.

When the unmistakable smell of ice wafted to her, the old she-wolf slowed. A memory tickled her now, from long ago. For a moment the recollection was so overwhelming she forgot where she was, and could only remember a pursuit along these same grounds with Mate and Brother, and the ice, and the way the prey vanished from sight.

She slowed. There would be no kill, the she-wolf knew. The reindeer would attempt to escape across the frozen ground and would vanish where the ice met the sky.

The memory brought another association: the man who had for many seasons brought her food. She missed him, suddenly, and found herself oddly yearning to be fed by him.

She sat and waited. The big female pup was the first to return, and she nosed the old she-wolf in confusion. How was it that the prey disappeared at the end of the world?

Not bothering to wait for the rest of the litter, the old she-wolf turned to find the scent of the man, her granddaughter at her heels. The males would simply have to catch up.

*   *   *

The winter migration the year Mal was named was miserable for the Kindred. After they moved silently through the Cohort territory at the river juncture, the weather turned dry and chilly and they were unable to find anything to eat. The herds of southward migrating reindeer must have all turned into the Cohort Valley, where the Kindred dared not go. The hunt went out and came back empty-handed and frustrated.

The supply of dried berries, intended to last well into the snows, were sacrificed. The nuts and seeds painstakingly gathered all summer were swiftly depleted. Their progress slowed while they dug for insects along the way. They were almost desperately hungry when they arrived at the Blanc Tribe settlement, willing to trade everything they possessed for food. Urs even gave up the skin from the great bear that had stalked Calli.

Calli and Coco, the cooks, were grateful for the fish and the waterfowl the Blanc Tribe provided, though the fish, as usual, tasted odd compared to the red meat the Kindred preferred. And the water plants were so bitter, but it seemed impolite to refuse them.

“They are very welcoming, though,” Coco remarked.

Calli agreed. “Perhaps their odd appearance makes them less likely to turn away others—they, themselves, would normally be turned away.”

Coco saw the wisdom in this. “Though we do have some pale-eyed among the Kindred,” she pointed out. Then she bit her lip—no one ever spoke of Palloc around Calli. He still had not returned to the family fire, too proud to acknowledge that the story of his wife's adultery had been discredited. Or was it fear of his mother?

Coco saw the disturbed expression on her daughter's face and decided the time had come to reveal something she had long kept secret. “Ignus,” she blurted, pulling up short after the one word, suddenly reticent to continue.

Calli gave Coco a curious look. “My father,” Calli prompted, wondering why her mother looked so distressed. “Is there something wrong, Mother?”

“There is a reason you have no siblings. Your father was not … He was unappreciative of the warmth of my bed.”

“What do you mean? He always…” Calli's words trailed off. “Oh,” she said in a quiet voice.

Coco nodded. “Your father was a good man and he did sleep by our fire, but I knew his reluctance the way I knew his silence. He just seemed to prefer to be by himself. He provided for me in many ways, but not…” Coco made a gesture.

Calli nodded thoughtfully, and then her eyes widened. “Never?” she exclaimed, shocked.

Coco pursed her lips. “What I am trying to say to you is that I know what you are going through. I know what it is like to have a husband who does not give of his affections.”

“Mother?”

Coco closed her eyes. “You must never tell anyone. The shame would be too much.”

“Who?”

Coco opened her eyes and gave Calli a sad smile. “Hardy.”

“What?”

“It was after his first wife died, and before he married Droi. I went to him because he was the new hunt master. I wanted his advice on what to do about Ignus. Hardy offered … more than just advice.”

“Hardy is my
father
?” Calli felt tears on her cheeks, though she was not altogether sure why.

“He had such strength, such power, and was so smart. Calli, please do not hate me. I was young. My husband would not touch me and I sought confirmation that I was still an attractive woman. It does not mean I did not love your father.”

Calli looked over, trying to find Hardy among the men of the hunt. Being with the Blanc Tribe meant there was no formal men's side or women's side, but even still the sexes naturally segregated. “Does he know?”