Through Wolf's Eyes (4 page)

All Derian was certain of was that Prince Barden, if
reinstated to his father's favor, would have the best claim. Lady
Blysse, who would be about fifteen now, would have as good a claim as
any and better than many.

And certainly lost prince or his lost-er daughter
would need a counselor. And who better than the kind and wise Earl
Kestrel, who had risked life and limb to bring father and daughter
forth from exile?

T
HAT NIGHT, A
few
hours before dawn, Firekeeper curled up among the pups so that they
would soak in her scent and know her even after an absence. Perhaps it
was the hot, round bodies clustered around her own, perhaps the
memories awakened by her talk with the One Male, but she dreamed of
fire.

Kindled in a shallow pit ringed around with river
rock and bordered with cleared dirt. Her fingers ache a little from
striking together the special stones from the little bag the Ones have
just given her. Deep inside, she feels a shiver of fear as she
tentatively nurses the fire to life with gentle breath and offerings of
food.

"That's right," says the One Female, her tones
level though her neck ruff is stiff with tension at remaining so close
to the flames. "Feed it little things first: a dry leaf, a bit of
grass, a twig. Only when it is stronger can it eat bigger things."

"Yes, Mother. How do you know so much?"

The One Female smiles, lips pulled back from
teeth. "I have watched such small fires being made, Little Two-legs.
Only when they are permitted to eat more than their fill do they grow
dangerous."

The pale new flames reach out greedily for a twig, lapping
her hand. She drops the twig and sucks on an injured finger.

"It bit me, Mother!"

"Tamara! Don't put your hand in the fire, sweetling! You'll get burnt!"

The voice is not the rumble of the wolf, thoughts
half-expressed by ears and posture rather than by sounds. These words
are all sound, the voice high but strong. The speaker is a two-legs,
towering far taller than any wolf.

"I didn't touch it, Mama. I was only looking."

Orange and red, glowing warm and comforting where
it is contained within the hearth, the flames taste the bottom of the
fat, round-bellied black kettle hung over them. The air smells of
burning wood and simmering soup.

"Good girl. We welcome fire into our homes but never forget that it can be a dangerous guest . . ."

Dangerous
.

Smoke so thick and choking that her eyes run with
water. Coughs rack her ribs. A band wraps around her, squeezing what
little air there is out of her. Vaguely she realizes that it is a
broad, muscular arm. Her father's arm.

He is crawling along the packed earth floor,
keeping his head and hers low. Moving slowly, so slowly, coughing with
every breath. The room in the cabin is hot and full of smoke. Something
falls behind them with a crash that reverberates even through the dirt
floor.

"Donal!" Mama's voice, shrill now with panic. "Donal!"

"Sar . . ." More a gasp than a word. Then stronger, "Sarena!"

A shadow seen through burning eyes, crouching, grabbing her.

"Donal! What . . ."

She is being dragged again, more quickly now.

"My legs, a beam . . . when I went for the child."

"I'll get her out, come back for you!"

"No! Get clear."

"I'll come back."

Outside, clearer air, but still so full of smoke.
She is weeping now, tears washing her eyes so that she can see. Mama
has brought her outside of the wooden palisade that surrounds
Bardenville. Looking back she can see that all the buildings are aflame. Where are the people?

"Wait here, Tamara." Mama coughs. "I'm going to get Papa."

She can't do anything but wait, her legs are so
weak. Though the air outside is clearer, she can barely breathe, but
she struggles to reassure her mother.

"I'll wait, Mama."

Mama turns. Even smudged with soot, coughing and
limping, she is graceful. Tamara watches through bleared eyes as Mama
goes into the burning thing that was once a cabin.

Where are the people? Where is Barden? Where is
Carpenter who made her a doll? Where is Blysse who plays with her?
Where is . . .

Something large comes out of the forest behind
her. A wolf. What Mama and Papa call a Royal Wolf, though Tamara
doesn't know why. The wolf licks her in greeting, whines.

Tamara points to the burning cabin. "Mama . . ."

The wolf barks sharply. A second wolf, then two
more, come out of the forest. Clearly they fear the fire, but they run
into the burning settlement. One even runs into the cabin, comes out
dragging something that is screaming in raw pain.

Tamara's eyes flood. She hears shriller screaming
and realizes it is her own voice out of control, belonging it seems to
someone other than herself. She can't stop screaming and all around
there are sparks, flames, smoke, and a terrible smell.

She screams and . . .

Firekeeper awoke, the scream still in her throat, the
pups stirring nervously around her. Beyond them, a large white shape
rose. The One Female nudged Firekeeper fully awake, lapping her face
with her tongue.

"Awake, Little Two-legs. The dawn is becoming day. Your journey is before you."

G
ETTING THROUGH THE IRON MOUNTAIN GAP
the next day proved only nearly impossible. There was nothing like a
traveled path—certainly a blow to Earl Kestrel's conjectures about
renegade peddlers—but there was a fairly well used game trail.

"Elk," Race proclaimed. "Moose. Certainly creatures
larger than deer. They may summer across the pass and then come east in
the winter."

"Delighting our huntsmen to no end," said Sir Jared Surcliffe. "Why do you say they come east in the winter?"

"Just a guess," the guide admitted. "Ocean and
mountains both moderate the weather. My thought was that our winters
may be milder because we are walled in by mountains on the west."

Derian, recalling some pretty nasty winter storms,
bit back a sarcastic comment. He had his hands full with two of the
pack mules, stubborn beasts who refused to follow unless dragged. His
booted feet ached, and he cursed the boulders and loose rocks that made
following the straightest route a fool's dream.

"Must have been tough going for Prince Barden's
group," Jared continued. Still mounted, he was leading Derian's Roanne.
"They didn't have just a few horses and mules. From what the steward
reported to King Tedric, they pretty much stripped the manor of its
livestock."

"It
was
the prince's property," Earl Kestrel reminded them
with gentle firmness. "West Keep was one of the estates his father had given to him."

Derian grinned despite his weariness. It was to the
earl's advantage to make certain that all of them remained sympathetic
toward a man who was—realistically seen—at the very least a rebel and
perhaps even a traitor.

Not for the first time he wondered just how much King
Tedric would welcome back his third child. For some moon-spans now
rumors had been flying around the capital that the king was considering
putting off Queen Elexa, who was well past childbearing years, and
taking a new bride in an attempt to get another heir.

Of course, that would likely anger the queen's Wellward relatives, for she had been, by all accounts, a blameless wife.

They paused an hour or so later so that Race and Ox
could clear a path through some growth that moose or elk would likely
view as a pleasant snack. Derian trudged down to the nearest brook and
hauled water back to the horses and mules.

"A little, not too much," he cautioned Valet, who silently came to help him.

Valet was a small, agile man who, from what Derian
had observed, must be made entirely out of iron wire. Equally talented
at handling a tea service or a hawk, versed in both etiquette and his
temperamental master's moods, he had held up well through the long,
muddy springtide journey.

This had come as a surprise to Derian, who had
expected, upon first meeting Valet, that the little man would collapse
as soon as the going got rough. Who would expect hardiness from a
fellow who made his final duty of every evening putting hot coals into
a travelling iron and pressing his master's shirts and trousers?

But Valet had proven Derian wrong. When Derian had
shared his surprise with Ox, the bodyguard had told him that Valet
accompanied Earl Kestrel everywhere, even into battle. Certainly,
Derian would never have learned this from Valet himself. The man rarely
spoke three words unless directly addressed.

Even now, though he must have known not to overwater
a hot horse, Valet said nothing in reproof (as Derian himself might have), but merely nodded.

As dusk was fading into full dark, the expedition
emerged from the pass and onto something like level ground. The light
was almost, but not quite, too poor to make camp, a thing for which
Derian's aching body was eternally grateful. A cold meal, then sleeping
wrapped in a bedroll on lumpy ground, would have been more than he
could have borne. Every part of him cried out for hot food, hot water
in which to soak his feet, and the relative comfort of a proper tent.

Of course, these things must wait until after the
horses and mules were tended, after he had fetched water for all the
camp, after he had unpacked the bedrolls, the horse feed, and the
party's personal kits.

He couldn't even feel sorry for himself while he
worked, for no one else was resting, not even the earl. The nobleman,
between mouthfuls of sautéed pigeon with wild mushrooms and lightly
braised greens, was estimating how long they could remain away from
civilization without replenishing their supplies.

Although Derian had no desire to seem less willing
than any of the rest, he was grateful beyond words when, after a meal
of journey cake and hard cheese followed by a withered apple for
dessert, Jared Surcliffe ordered Derian to remove his boots.

"As you wish, Doc," Derian agreed, "but who will do the cleaning up?"

"Race can handle it," Jared replied bluntly. "I've
watched you limping from midday on. He's more accustomed to tromping
about over rough ground."

Race, complimented, accepted the menial chore without
protest. "I wanted to set some fish traps in any case," he said,
gathering up the pots and cups.

The lonely howl of a wolf, answered by a fainter,
second cry, silenced for a moment the singing of the night peepers and
shriller chirps of the insects. The humans froze in visceral,
instinctive fear.

"Take Ox with you," the earl commanded.

Race nodded and the two men departed.

"Think they'll be all right, Doc?" Derian asked nervously as Jared helped him off with his boots.

"I'm more worried about your feet than I am about
wolves," the other man replied. "Race and Ox are big men. The wolves
should find much easier hunting this time of year."

"The horses don't like all that howling much," Derian
said, talking to keep his mind off the sting of hot water on his feet.
"But that just makes sense. Wolves probably see the horses as an easy
dinner."

"That's something to remember," Doc agreed. "Whoever's on watch should keep a close eye on horses and mules alike."

A few minutes later, he lifted Derian's feet from the water, inspected them, then smeared some ointment on the blisters.

"We'll probably stay in this camp until we locate
Prince Barden," Doc said. "I'm going to suggest to Earl Kestrel that
you take camp watch so you can wear soft shoes and let these blisters
heal."

"Thanks," Derian said, not bothering to mask his relief.

"My pleasure." Doc grinned. "I had the privilege of
staying on horseback most of the day rather than picking along the
ground dragging a string of mules. You and Ox took most of the
punishment there."

"Ox seems fine," Derian commented enviously.

"He's an old campaigner and knows how to pamper his feet," Doc replied. "You should consult him before we continue."

"I will."

They sat in companionable silence for a long moment.

"Doc, do you think we'll find the prince? Honestly?"

Jared shook his head, but his words belied the gesture. "We'll find something—the earl insists."

Later, almost too tired to sleep, dismissed from
guard duty for this night, Derian lay in the tent he shared with Ox and
listened to the night sounds above the other man's breathing. Deep in
his heart, he began to suspect that they would find no one. Nothing in
the surrounding wilderness spoke with a human voice.